^T\T  fin     T  vvt  :TT^ 

11UE  LOV1 


TRUE  LOVE 


TRUE  LOVE 


BY 

ALLAN   MONKHOUSE 


"Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments." 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT  1920 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


8%e  6utnn  &  9obcn    Companp 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAH  WAY  NEW    JERSEY 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

CHAl'TER  PAGK 

I.  FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS 3 

II.  MARY  AND  GEOFFREY 19 

III.  MARY  AND  SIBYL 37 

IV.  REHEARSAL  .       .       .       .       .       .       •  49 

V.  LOYALTIES 61 

VI.     PERFORMANCE 77 

VII.    THE  Two  WORLDS 92 

PART  II 

VIII.  SUMMER ..109 

IX.  THE  EVE .128 

X.  THE  WAR'S  HERE 144 

XI.  RECRIMINATIONS 157 

XII.  THE  OTHER  EXTREME       ....     170 

XIII.  PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE      ....     185 

XIV.  ANTI-CLIMAX      .       .       .       .       .       .198 

XV.  FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  '.  214 

XVI.    COTERIE        .       .       ••      .       .      .       .228 

v 


vi  CONTENTS 

PART  III 

CHAPTER 

XVII.  AT  LAST    . 239 

XVIII.  THE  IDEA  .       .       .       .       .       .       .263 

XIX.  LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS      .       .       .       .  274 

XX.  STIRRUP-CUP    .       ...       .       .286 

XXI.  TRAINING  .       ...       .       .       .  3<>4 

XXII.  MORE  LETTERS  ......  31? 

XXIII.  HONEYMOON     .       .       .       .       .       .  329 

XXIV.  "  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "       .       .       .  345 
XXV.  LAST  LETTERS 364 

XXVI.  SPECTATORS       ...... 


PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 
FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS 

LEAVING  the  Herald  office,  Arden  paused  before  tak- 
ing the  step  down  to  the  street,  and  looked  about  him. 
He  was  faintly  conscious  of  the  familiarities ;  the  or- 
nate bulk  of  the  Exchange,  now  in  process  of  expan- 
sion, the  lines  of  other  buildings,  the  clanging  trams, 
all  the  hurrying,  changing  forms  which,  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  Imalian,  he  had  sometimes  tried  to  see  in  terms 
of  the  new  art.  Imalian,  of  course,  did  not  call  it  the 
new  art,  for  to  use  an  expression  so  crude  would  have 
vexed  his  connoisseurship ;  if  you  used  it  his  kindly 
indulgence  reduced  your  irony  to  a  mere  facetious- 
ness.  It  was  not  Imalian  that  Arden  wanted  now, 
though  a  thought  of  that  romantic  Eastern  crossed  his 
mind.  Imalian  stood  for  deep  and  secret  things.  A 
man  of  the  world,  but  he  discoursed  of  prints  or  of 
bookbindings  with  that  strange  and  secret  look  of  his 
which  suggested  something  infinitely  beyond  them. 
Bonsor  did  not  likf  it ;  Bonsor  resented  it ;  "  You  can- 
not trust  the  fellow,"  he  said.  It  is  true  that  the  repu- 
tation of  Imalian's  firm  stood  high  in  Manchester  and 
that  there  was  nothing  positively  against  the  man,  but 
these  Easterns  may  be  honest  for  some  inscrutable 
reason  not  founded  on  the  rock.  Bonsor  rolled  out 
his  denunciation  of  Jews,  Turks,  infidels,  and  heretics 
— such  a  phrase  was  a  godsend  to  him — and  he  had  no 

3 


4  TRUE  LOVE 

use  for  minor  distinctions.  Imalian  looked  gray  and 
stony  when  Turks  were  mentioned,  but  there  was  no 
denying  that  he  was  a  Turkish  subject.  He  was  not 
precisely  a  Jew  but  he  belonged  to  that  lot;  probably 
he  was  both  an  infidel  and  a  heretic.  Bonsor  was  an 
Englishman.  "  I  am  simply  an  Englishman,"  he  said, 
and,  up  to  a  point,  he  could  not  trust  Mr.  Lloyd 
George.  If  Imalian  should  be  put  up  for  the  Club  it 
would  be  his  duty  to  blackball  him.  In  confidence  he 
would  tell  you  that  he  did  not  like  foreigners  of  any 
kind.  It  was  later  that  he  developed  an  enthusiasm 
for  the  French,  Russians,  and  Serbians — an  enthusiasm 
which,  before  it  wilted,  reduced  his  favorite  formula 
of  "  make  the  foreigner  pay  "  to  a  hazy  advocacy  of 
a  graduated  tariff.  But  he  certainly  did  not  want 
them  at  the  Club ;  "  Let  us  be  among  ourselves,"  he 
said.  And  it  was  later,  too,  though  before  the  Ameri- 
cans "  came  in,"  that  he  heard  on  good  authority  that 
President  Wilson  had  Jewish  blood  in  him. 

Well,  Arden  did  not  want  Imalian  to-day,  and  he 
certainly  did  not  want  Bonsor,  but  he  wanted  some- 
body. The  busy  street  produced  all  sorts  of  useless 
figures,  and  it  came  to  him  that  it  was  Tim  Burke  he 
wanted.  He  remembered  BurkeV  saying  that  when 
you  want  a  thing  the  best  plan  is  to  take  the  simplest 
means  of  getting  it,  and,  obvious  as  this  is,  it  is  not 
realized  by  those  who  conduct  their  lives  on  a  com- 
plicated system  of  denials.  Arden  turned  back  into 
the  office  and  telephoned  to  his  friend.  Ten  minutes 
afterwards  they  entered  a  tea-shop  together.  As  they 
plunged  downstairs  to  the  smoke-room,  Arden  bowed 


FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS  5 

to  a  young  lady  seated  alone  at  a  table  in  the  upper 
room. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  sign  of  the  sympathetic  nature 
which  made  of  Burke  a  likely  confidant  that,  before 
they  were  settled,  he  should  say :  "  Look  here !  I'll  let 
you  off." 

"Let  me  off?" 

"  You'd  rather  go  and  talk  to  that  young  woman 
than  stay  with  me  in  this  reeky  hole." 

"  It's  impossible,  Tim."  It  was  Tim  in  moments  of 
friendly  effusiveness. 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  don't  you  see  that  if  I  were  such  a  black- 
guard as  to  leave  you,  I  couldn't  join  her.  It  would 
be  so  marked." 

Burke  grinned.    "You  did  think  of  it,  then?" 

"  Not  as  a  thing  that  could  be  done." 

"  You'll  never  be  much  good  while  you're  afraid  of 
doing  things  that  are  marked." 

"  Of  course,  I  never  thought  of  it.  Not  in  that  way. 
It  only  crossed  my  mind  that  in  this  cursed  world  you 
can't  have  everything.  I'd  like  to  talk  to  the  girl  well 
enough,  but  I  wouldn't  leave  you  for  untold  gold. 
One  has  to  miss  things.  Think  of  what  we're  missing 
as  we  sit  here!  An  infinity  of  charming  girls  who 
would  like  to  talk  to  us,  every  kind  of  adventure,  all 
the  excitements  of  the  world,  even  mild,  pleasant, 
suburban  things  that  are  very  nice  in  their  way.  And 
all  I've  got  is  you,  you  old  devil.  Don't  you  ever  feel 
like  that?" 

"Who  is  she?" 


6  TRUE  LOVE 

"  That's  nothing.  I  hardly  know  her.  She's  Sibyl 
Drew." 

"  I  seem  to  know  the  name." 

"  I  must  tell  her  that." 

"A  celebrity?" 

"  Local." 

"  She  looks  not  very  like  an  actress." 

"  You're  getting  too  subtle,  Tim.  You're  spoiling 
my  idea  of  you." 

"One's  to  keep  within  that?" 

"  Let's  have  something  solid  and  settled." 

"  Is  she  an  actress  ?  " 

"  At  the  Playgoers'  Theater.    Yes." 

"  Ah !    The  Repertory  Show  ?  " 

"  Merely  that." 

"  I  don't  seem  to  get  the  hang  of  these  repertory 
people.  Bit  holy  aren't  they?  Of  course  they  did 
your  play." 

"  They're  just  like  anybody  else.  The  actors,  I 
mean.  Of  course  a  particular  man  or  woman  may  be 
different." 

"She's  different?" 

"  I  dare  say.  I  came  here  to  talk  about  something 
else." 

"  Fire  away." 

But  he  didn't  seem  in  a  hurry  to  do  that.  He  toyed 
with  cigarettes  while  Burke  pulled  at  his  pipe  with  a 
judicial  air;  Tim  was  rather  like  a  comical  old  judge 
who  would  let  you  off  with  an  admonition  if  he  could 
do  it  decently.  He  was  an  Irishman  with  no  nonsense 
about  him,  and  it  seemed  that  his  share  of  romance 


FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS  7 

and  the  Celtic  fervors  was  distributed  all  over  his 
body  and  soul;  it  relieved  his  stolidities  but  it  didn't 
make  much  show  at  any  particular  spot.  He  had  been 
an  engineer  on  a  ship,  and  now  that  he  was  a  sort 
of  one  on  land — he  had  an  office  where  those  who 
wanted  to  consult  him  could,  and  he  was  the  engineer- 
ing expert  of  the  Herald — he  retained  something  of 
the  sailor's  charm,  for  the  engine-room  is  not  very  far 
from  the  deck.  He  was  not  quite  in  his  place  in  an 
office,  but  he  was  a  man  who  could  settle  down  any- 
where. He  was  a  calm  Irishman. 

Arden  began  to  talk  about  his  colleagues  on  the 
Herald,  and  particularly  of  the  remarkable  feat  which, 
long  ago,  had  been  performed  by  Attar.  Perhaps 
Attar  exaggerated  for  the  purposes  of  narration,  but 
there  was  a  time  when  it  seemed  that  he  was  not  get- 
ting on  very  well  at  "  the  office."  His  subjects  did  not 
inspire  him,  he  made  mistakes  through  an  excess  of 
discretion,  he  was  not  a  good  drudge,  and  his  later 
brilliance  was  somewhere  locked  up  in  him.  It  was 
a  crisis  in  his  life  when  he  got  a  note  from  the  editor 
to  ask  him  to  call  and  have  a  talk  about  his  work. 
No  mere  wigging  in  the  editor's  room  this  time,  but  a 
conference  in  his  home,  and  there  was  an  ominous 
friendliness  about  the  invitation.  Lindsay  was  the 
kindest  and  most  generous  of  men,  the  most  con- 
siderate of  editors,  but  the  Herald  was  his  passion 
and  he  could  be  ruthless  in  its  service.  It  was  the 
symbol  of  the  aspirations  of  a  political  idealist  who 
would  bring  his  aspirations  to  the  test  of  reason.  Young 
men  preoccupiod  with  their  own  brilliant  careers  and 


8  TRUE  LOVE 

without  loyalty  to  the  Herald  and  what  it  stood  for 
would  not  find  Lindsay  pliable.  Attar  was  conscious 
of  good  intentions,  but  he  did  not  relish  the  notion  of 
an  intimate  talk  with  so  formidable  a  friend.  He  was 
consciously  vulnerable. 

And  yet  the  interview  had  been  a  splendid  success 
for  Attar.  At  Lindsay's  first  hint  he  had  led  off  with 
a  sort  of  confession  that  ranged  from  analysis  to 
aspiration,  and  it  was  followed  up  by  positive  pro- 
posals. If  Attar  had  been  a  fool  or  a  vulgarian  he 
would  have  said  that  he  had  got  round  the  old  man, 
but  it  would  be  more  truthful  to  say  that  he  had  found 
himself.  He  had  set  out,  soberly  enough,  in  a  tram, 
but  he  returned  gaily  in  a  hansom — it  was  before  the 
days  of  taxis — and  the  miracle,  the  glowing,  stupen- 
dous miracle,  was  that  he  had  accomplished  a  rise  in 
salary ;  that  was  the  sign  and  the  height  of  his  achieve- 
ment. The  fine  flower  of  it  came  immediately,  for 
the  elated  fellow  retained  the  hansom,  at  great  ex- 
pense, for  a  drive  into  the  farther  suburbs.  "  He 
rushed  into  a  drawing-room,"  said  Arden, — "  I  am 
giving  you  my  impressions  of  it — he  scattered  a  tea- 
party,  isolating  the  beauteous,  the  desired  one.  He 
was  accepted,  and,  as  you  know,  he  has  lived  happy 
and  glorious  ever  after.  A  remarkable  triumph." 

"  A  triumph  for  Lindsay,"  said  Burke. 

"  And  there's  something  in  that,  Tim." 

"  Where  do  you  come  in  ?  "  said  Burke.  "  Have 
you  taken  to  riding  about  in  taxis  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Arden,  "  my  interview  was  not  such  a 
howling  success." 


FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS  9 

"Got  the  sack?" 

"  No." 

"How  then?" 

"  Released  with  a  caution." 

"Why  didn't  you  burst  out  like  Attar?" 

"  I  should  have  done  it  so  badly." 

"  Which  ?    The  talking  or  the  doing  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  both." 

"  I  expect  Lindsay  thinks  you're  better  than  you 
make  out." 

"  He  said  something  of  the  kind." 

"All  right,  then?" 

"  Hardly." 

And  then  Arden  enlarged  to  the  grave,  good  fellow 
about  it  all.  Lindsay  had  told  him  in  the  kindest 
manner  that  he  was  not  getting  on.  It  was  an  age  of 
specialization  and  he  wasn't  specializing.  Burke 
grinned,  interjecting,  "Why!  you  chaps  tackle  every 
subject.  How  can  you  specialize  on  'em  all?  "  Arden 
explained  that  among  them  they  were  supposed  to 
cover  the  ground.  He  had  one  or  two  minor  subjects 
and  wrote  on  them  passably,  but,  as  Lindsay  said,  he 
hadn't  attacked  any  big  thing  constructively  or  even 
ardently.  "  Of  course,"  he  had  continued,  "  you're 
all  right  here.  You  do  a  fair  amount  of  useful  work. 

But "  was  it  quite  good  enough  to  degenerate  into 

a  useful,  hack  writer?  The  interview  had  been  de- 
pressing. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  next  word  is  with  you," 
said  Burke. 

And  then  Arden  began  to  review  his  inefficiencies. 


10  TRUE  LOVE 

and  humiliations,  while  Burke  contributed  grunts  that 
varied  on  a  narrow  scale.  Arden  had  been  pitch- 
forked into  journalism  ill-equipped ;  without  adequate 
training  in  economics  or  history  or  anything  else.  His 
schooling  had  been  cut  short  early,  he  had  pursued 
"  business  "  half-heartedly  while  casual,  copious  read- 
ing tended  to  a  sort  of  culture.  And,  really,  he  was 
finding  the  pace  too  hot.  He  hadn't  the  boundless 
energy  to  overhaul  the  others.  "  I'm  not  of  the  jeal- 
ous, emulous  disposition,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  dear !  My 
timidities,  niceties,  covert  advances,  reticences,  humili- 
ties. Yes,  and  my  bursts  of  arrogance  when  I  feel  as 
good  as  any  of  'em.  After  all,  I've  done  a  lot.  I've 
emerged  at  least." 

He  had  accomplished  one  great  dead  lift  to  get  him- 
self where  he  was,  and  now  he  was  called  on  for 
another  and  another.  It  wasn't  as  though  he  were  a 
genius.  He  had  a  certain  capacity  for  taking  pains 
but  not  an  infinite  one.  When  Lindsay  wanted  a  new 
man  on  the  staff  he  wrote  to  some  bigwig  at  Oxford 
and  asked  for  a  list  of  the  best  young  men  about. 
Brilliant  young  double-firsts  tumbled  over  one  an- 
other to  get  on  the  Herald,  but  they  had  to  be  some- 
thing better  than  double-firsts  to  stay  there.  Yes,  the 
pace  was  hot. 

"  You  want  a  better  conceit  of  yourself  ? "  said 
Burke. 

Was  that  it?  Was  he  failing  through  modesty? 
Certainly  he  was  not  going  to  succeed  in  the  world 
by  a  brazen  effrontery  of  the  Mr.  Stryver  kind.  And 
that  couldn't  be  done  on  such  a  paper  as  the  Herald. 


FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS  11 

Outside,  success  might  come  with  %  fairly  good  article 
well-advertised,  for  that  is  the  way  of  the  world;  the 
foodstuffs  advertised  on  the  hoardings  are  not  at  all 
bad,  the  men  who  are  pushing  to  the  front  have  some 
talent  to  exercise  when  they  get  there.  On  the  Herald 
there  wasn't  much  pushing  to  be  done.  You  had  to 
make  your  way  by  veritable  brainwork;  even  the  re- 
porters never  got  a  fair  chance  with  headlines.  And 
always  there  was  the  close,  not  unfriendly,  but  real, 
persistent  criticism  of  one's  colleagues.  In  the  early 
days  he  had  found  the  idea  of  this  vastly  exhilarating. 
"  So  that  I  draw  the  breath  of  finer  air  " — he  had 
quoted  Meredith — "  station  is  naught."  It  was  one 
of  the  jocular  traditions  of  the  office — and  not  with- 
out some  foundation — that  George  Meredith  had  been 
refused  a  job  there.  He  wasn't  quite  good  enough. 
So  the  young  intellectuals  would  put  it  to  heavy  out- 
siders. They  played  at  being  prigs.  Never  was  such 
a  set  of  boys.  They  were  boys  even  when  they  verged 
on  middle-age,  and  they  would  write  like  boys.  It 
came  of  the  inspiration  of  the  great  Secretan,  who  was 
an  article  of  religion  in  the  office,  and  of  a  religion  un- 
staled.  His  ideals  were  austere,  and  he  made  fun  with 
a  charming  buoyancy.  Of  course  he  was  a  scholar 
and  brilliance  was  mated  with  experience.  He  worked 
in  politics  without  being  precisely  a  politician.  That 
was  more  in  the  way  of  the  great  Round,  whose 
ability  was  considered  an  unfair  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence. And  then  there  was  Brecher,  of  Semitic  origin 
and  lively  coloring,  which  caused  him  to  be  known 
affectionately  as  the  Pink  'Un.  It  was  an  office  joke 


12  TRUE  LOVE 

that  certain  tyrannical  rulers  of  the  near  East  had 
put  a  price  upon  his  head. 

A  good  deal  of  intellectual  ragging  went  on  amongst 
them  all,  with  perhaps  the  exception  of  Secretan,  who 
had  always  wit  enough  to  extricate  himself  from  the 
claims  that  might  trespass  upon  his  precious  reserve. 
He  was  immensely  generous  and  profoundly  critical. 
He  kept  himself  in  a  timid,  arrogant  seclusion,  and 
you  could  imagine — or  you  couldn't — what  an  over- 
whelming thing  his  friendship  must  be.  Once  he  had 
startled  Arden  by  saying  that  a  writer  should  be  able 
to  perceive  a  distinct  improvement  in  his  style  every 
six  months ;  perhaps  Arden  had  added  the  word  "  dis- 
tinct "  himself,  for  to  Secretan  it  would  be  redundant. 
His  precious  style  which  was  as  natural  as  a  school- 
boy's chatter!  These  guarded  egoisms  seem  to  make 
loose,  careless  fellows  of  the  rest  of  us.  Masefield 
wanted  Synge  to  add  an  explanatory  stanza  to  a 
ballad.  "  Yes,"  said  Synge,  "  but  I  can't  take  your 
advice,  because  then  it  would  not  be  quite  my  own." 
You  can  be  jealous  of  the  interference  of  your  an- 
cestors. 

Arden  had  not  lost  his  early  loyalties  and  admira- 
tions as  he  came  to  know  these  men  better.  The 
mutual  admirations  of  the  Herald  were  a  stock  jest, 
but  they  could  not  become  mere  attitudes  while  the 
men  worked  side  by  side  and  critically.  Life  cannot 
be  all  ideals  and  generosities  and  these  men,  after  all, 
were  struggling  with  one  another,  if  not  for  a  living, 
for  the  pride  of  place.  That  was  the  point.  They 
were  rivals  and  friends,  and  Arden  could  carry  on  his 


FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS  13 

conception  of  a  generous  rivalry^till  he  imagined  a 
strife  to  the  death  in  which  friendship  would  remain. 
It  was  a  fanciful  conception,  but  in  the  time  to  come  it 
was  to  help  him  when  he  and  one  dear  to  him  needed 
help. 

He  did  not  draw  it  quite  as  fine  as  this  to  Burke, 
who  was  a  man  to  scent  nonsense  afar  and  might  grow 
just  a  little  restive  under  the  exposition  of  ideals.  But 
Burke  was  the  man  to  see  a  thing  apart  from  its  froth 
or  fringes,  and,  what  was  more  to  the  point,  to  make 
his  friend  see  it  so.  "  You  see,"  said  Arden,  "  it 
would  be  rather  horrible  to  be  excluded.  There  are 
times  when  a  man  craves  kindness,  and  then  he  begins 
to  fear  it.  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  the  time  when 
people  say,  '  Is  old  Arden  still  there  ? '  And  at  the 
end  of  a  long  vista  I  see  myself  retiring  with  the 
honors  of  service  and  a  casual  goodwill.  My  dear 
chap,  there  are  days  when  I  feel  played  out  because 
I  know  that  I  shall  be  played  out.  I'm  getting  soft. 
All  my  fiery  indiscretions  are  left  behind.  Am  I 
mature  and  wise — or  blunted?  The  theaters  now — 
do  you  ever  read  my  notices?  I'm  getting  old  and 
tired  and  kind." 

"  You've  just  lost  your  first  wind." 

"  That's  all  that's  any  good." 

"  Rubbish,"  said  Burke. 

"  You've  got  to  work  when  you're  fresh — or  in 
spurts." 

"  Over  a  four-mile  course?  " 

"  That's  no  analogy." 

"  I'm  not  done,"  continued  Arden.    "  Don't  think  I 


14  TRUE  LOVE 

mean  that.  Let  a  man  have  the  luxury  of  a  good 
cry.  I'm  too  dogged  to  yield,  but  one  has  stagnation 
and  repetition  periods.  I  try  to  be  honest  with  my- 
self. I  can  be  interested  in  politics  or  anything  else 
when  they're  kindled.  It's  the  intellectual  problems 
that  I  revolt  from.  If  they  were  human  and  dramatic, 
now!" 

"  You  seem  always  to  have  plenty  of  work  to  do," 
said  Burke. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  idle.  In  fact,  I'm  a  drudge.  That's 
the  devil  of  it.  I'm  a  drudge  with  tke  indolence  of 
the  drudge.  I  want  a  new  start." 

"  Then  take  one." 

"  The  indolence  of  the  drudge." 

"  I've  heard  you  fellows  say,"  said  Burke,  "  that  if 
you  want  to  know  anything  you  must  begin  to  write 
about  it." 

"Well?" 

"  Just  start  doing  something." 

"  I'm  always  doing  something,"  said  Arden.  "  I'm 
at  it  all  day  long." 

"  Then  there's  nothing  the  matter.  It's  what  they 
call  neurasthenia." 

Imalian  came  in,  and  after  his  gentle  greetings  he 
mentioned  that  the  little  Drew  person  from  the  Play- 
goers' was  upstairs.  He  spoke  of  her  approvingly,  as 
he  would  of  a  fine  piece  of  china  or  the  book  which 
he  presently  produced;  these  things  appealed  to  his 
taste.  He  would  share  the  simple  pleasures  of  the 
collector  with  you,  and  you  could  believe  that  he  had 
found  quite  a  tolerable  game,  but  sometimes  there 


FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS  15 

was  that  in  his  handling,  or  the  deep,  abstracted  gaze 
at  the  precious  object  which  justified  him;  your  sug- 
gestion that  you  went  straight  to  the  spirit  of  the  thing 
while  he  delayed  over  mummified  forms  was  alto- 
gether too  crude;  it  died  away.  He  added  one  thing 
to  another  and  perhaps  he  had  a  ritual  of  appreciation ; 
to  see  him  move  among  his  collections  made  it  possible 
to  believe  that.  It  was  a  surprise  to  discover  that  he 
was  extremely  modern.  He  seemed  to  know  just 
where  the  young  pioneers  of  the  arts  had  arrived  or 
thought  they  had.  A  good  deal  he  would  brush  aside 
quietly;  when  he  stopped  to  ponder  you  would  stop 
too;  rarely,  he  gave  the  decisive  word. 

Imalian  spoke  politely  about  Arden's  one-act  play. 
It  had  been  a  rather  lurid  affair,  and  he  dwelt  on  one 
or  two  curious  and  intimate  things  in  it.  The  big, 
rhetorical  effect  didn't  interest  him  or  he  took  it  for 
granted.  Arden  had  the  half-resentful,  half-whimsi- 
cal idea  of  luring  him  on  to  talk  of  Othello.  And, 
doubtless,  he  would  have  been  equal  to  that.  The 
easy,  emotional  rush  to  the  grandiose  was  not  his  way, 
but  may  you  not  conceive  even  Othello  as  the  light- 
nings playing  over  a  deep,  still  pool  ? 

Miss  Drew  had  not  been  in  Arden's  play,  and 
Imalian  was  very  much  interested  to  hear  that  she 
would  have  the  chief  part  in  his  forthcoming  comedy. 
This  was  a  full-sized,  four-act  affair,  and  was  soon  to 
be  put  in  rehearsal.  He  wanted  to  know  whether  the 
actress's  study  of  the  part  involved  long  conferences 
with  the  author;  it  was  pleasant  raillery,  and  they 
were  all  conscious  of  the  little  woman  drinking  her 


16  TRUE  LOVE 

tea  upstairs.  She  was  something  of  a  discovery,  she 
had  had  no  great  success  yet,  but  she  had  given  hints 
of  capacity  and  she  didn't  look  like  a  woman  who 
would  fail.  Imalian  was  curious  to  know  whether 
Arden  approved  of  her  for  his  heroine,  and  it  was 
a  pretty  obvious  thing  to  say  he  would  know  better 
after  two  or  three  rehearsals.  Being  in  the  state  of 
self-consciousness  that  induces  talking,  Arden  said 
that  she  was  rather  small.  Imalian  pondered  this  re- 
mark, so  devoid  of  brilliance — he  was  not  very  tall 
himself — and  invited  Arden  to  explain  how  it  mat- 
tered. This  was  not  easy,  and  he  could  but  plead  some 
hazy  mental  picture  of  a  more  commanding  figure. 
"  Ah !  the  poses !  "  said  Imalian,  and  hastened  to  agree 
that  they  mattered,  suggesting,  however,  that  every 
one  was  big  on,  a  stage,  though,  obviously,  some  were 
bigger  than  others.  They  trailed  off  into  some  dis- 
cussion of  the  great  Irving's  inches. 

Imalian  bent  a  kindly  glance  on  Burke  with  some 
remark,  indicating  Arden,  about  these  men  with  two 
strings  to  their  bow.  Imalian  and  Burke  had  not 
many  points  of  contact,  perhaps,  but  Burke  sat  there 
pulling  at  his  pipe,  not  disapprovingly.  He  saw  no 
harm  in  Imalian,  who  probably  regarded  him  as  a 
good  specimen  of  a  type  which  he  did  not  greatly 
affect.  He  did  not  collect  Toby  Jugs,  for  instance,  or 
Rowlandsons — the  instances  are  barely  relevant — but 
any  one  could  tell  that  there  was  a  good  deal  in  Burke 
under  the  surface.  Arden  had  thought  of  them  as 
two  men  not  destined  to  get  at  one  another  and  they 
did  not  commonly  make  the  effort.  Now,  however, 


FRIENDS  AND  RIVALS  17 

Burke  did  respond  to  the  other's  remark.  "  I'm  an 
Irishman,"  he  said,  "  but  I'll  tell  "you  a  story  about 
Burns.  You  know  that  he  was  a  good  plowman. 
Well,  there  was  a  lad  on  the  farm  who  did  his  best 
to  emulate  him,  and  at  the  end  of  a  day's  work  he 
came  to  Burns  and  said,  '  I  kept  up  with  you  to-day.' 
And  Burns  said,  '  Yes,  but  I've  made  a  sang.' " 

Imalian  nodded  approvingly.  "  Poor  lad,"  he  said. 
"  It  didn't  seem  quite  fair." 

"  Let's  hope  he  didn't  think  much  of  sangs,"  said 
Arden. 

"  Now,  as  to  the  application,"  said  Burke ;  "  are  this 
fellow's  songs  any  good  ?  "  He  pointed  at  Arden  with 
his  pipe. 

Imalian  complimented  him  on  the  story.  "  And  so 
cunning  of  you,"  he  said,  "  to  emphasize  the  essential 
word  by  making  it  the  only  Scottish  one." 

Burke  disclaimed.  "  It's  the  only  one  I  recollected," 
he  said. 

"You  got  right  instinctively,"  said  Imalian,  and 
Arden  saw  him  for  a  moment  as  a  suave  Oriental. 

"  Are  his  plays  good  enough  ?  "  said  Burke. 

"  The  only  one  I've  seen  was  very  successful,"  said 
Imalian.  As  Burke  seemed  to  be  waiting,  he  added, 
"  Good  enough  for  what  ?  " 

"  To  leave  all  and  follow  them." 

Arden  intervened.  "  Let  him  see  them  first,  at 
least,"  he  said,  "  and  even  then  Imalian  is  not  the  man 
for  downright  opinion.  You've  got  to  cultivate  him. 
He  hasn't  got  himself  made  up  in  little  packets." 

"  Surely  he  can  give  an  opinion,"  said  Burke. 


18  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I'm  a  plastic  artist,"  said  Imalian  genially.  "  Not 
articulate." 

"  For  instance,"  said  Burke  with  a  certain  ruthless- 
ness,  "  is  there  any  money  to  be  made  by  these  plays 
of  his?" 

Imalian  gave  the  point  polite  consideration. 
"  Somehow,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  into  the  way  of  asso- 
ciating art  with  the  spending  of  money." 

Burke  grunted  and  got  up.  They  all  got  up  and 
passed  upstairs.  Each  of  them  glanced  at  the  place 
which  Miss  Drew  had  vacated. 


CHAPTER  II 
MARY  AND  GEOFFREY 

GEOFFREY  ARDEN  lived  with  his  sister  Mary  in  a  little 
house,  something  between  a  survival  and  an  eccen- 
tricity, that  broke  the  line  of  Grayling  Street  which 
connected  the  Oxford  Road  with  Upper  Brook  Street. 
The  street's  name  was  a  mystery,  but  a  slightly  stimu- 
lating one,  and  they  took  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  in 
the  individuality  of  their  house,  standing  back  from 
the  road  in  a  quite  appreciable  garden,  which  was  kept 
decent  rather  than  gay.  The  house  had  a  number,  but 
you  could  find  it  without,  which  was  something  to 
be  thankful  for  in  a  street  generally  uniform,  and  it 
had  a  stucco  front  and  gables,  a  respectable  amount  of 
antiquity,  some  tradition  of  learned  occupants,  and 
low,  rather  quaint  rooms.  It  was  considered  to  suit 
the  Ardens,  and  particularly  Mary  Arden,  who  was 
so  full  of  sympathy  for  her  fellow-creatures  and  so 
rarely  got  into  line  with  them.  It  had  seemed  the 
obvious  thing  when  Geoffrey  joined  the  Herald,  that 
she  should  come  to  keep  house  for  him,  for  she  was 
the  only  other  unattached  member  of  one  of  those 
families  which  for  years  seem  almost  impervious  to 
change  and  then  scatter  and  dissolve.  Mary  and 
Geoffrey  had  lived  most  of  their  lives  in  another  Man- 

19 


20  TRUE  LOVE 

Chester  suburb,  and  most  of  their  education  had  been 
received  in  Manchester. 

They  lived  together  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  yet 
each  had  doubts  and  reticences  about  it.  They  had 
sympathies  and  affections  profoundly,  and  yet  all 
sorts  of  tricks  of  reserve  had  grown  between  them.  In 
the  old  days,  the  family  had  been  a  pretty  voluble  one, 
and  the  ardent  young  people  had  taken  some  pride  in 
the  exclusion  of  what  they  called  sentimentality.  Per- 
haps something  had  gone  with  it,  and  Geoffrey  could 
recall  with  amusement  disputations  on  pure  tragedy, 
utilitarianism,  or  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  They 
seemed  to  leave  little  room  for  tenderness,  and  it  was 
Mary  who  would  commonly  put  in  some  plea  against 
the  logicians.  She  had  a  way  of  her  own  in  taking 
the  world;  she  would  not  accept  easy  conclusions 
against  it. 

Yet  at  times  she  would  blaze  out  into  a  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  to  the  disconcertment  of  any  man  of  the 
world  irony.  She  drove  athwart  Geoffrey's  moods, 
and  he  found  himself  involved  in  passionate  argu- 
ments with  her,  half-agreeing  sometimes  and  roused 
to  an  extreme  of  antagonism  by  the  mere  irritant  de- 
tail. She  had  had  about  her  so  often  and  so  long, 
those  who  did  not  see  as  she  saw  that  now  she  would 
assume  opposition  and  break  defiantly  into  it.  She  was 
intensely  democratic,  but  she  was  intensely  conserva- 
tive too.  She  would  not  accept  the  inevitable;  she 
would  not  make  terms  with  the  devilish.  The  jokes 
were  against  her,  but  she  had  a  disarming  perception 
of  them.  Her  courtesies  with  servants  had  sometimes 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  21 

run  to  curious  extremes,  and  she  had  to  give  up  shak- 
ing hands  with  them  when  it  appeared  that  they  did 
not  like  it.  She  had  been  known  to  insist  on  giving  a 
market  woman  the  fantastical  price  named  in  the  pre- 
liminary palaver,  for  it  was  plainly  wrong  that  you 
should  give  a  poor  woman  less  than  a  fair  price  be- 
cause the  exigencies  of  the  market  favored  you.  A 
moral  problem  bothered  her  when  Geoffrey  suggested 
that  it  was  his  money  she  had  spent.  She  was  not  of 
this  world,  it  seemed,  or  she  was  penetratingly  of  it. 

Walking  home  that  day,  after  his  talk  with  Burke 
and  Imalian,  Geoffrey  imagined  himself  discussing  his 
prospects,  his  life,  everything,  with  Mary.  She  would 
be  immensely  sympathetic,  he  knew;  she  would  want 
to  go  deep  with  him.  And  he  was  so  vague  about  it 
all ;  he  didn't  know  what  he  wanted  or  what  he  could 
do.  He  was  drifting,  and  to  drift  is  a  great  pre- 
possession. Sometimes  when  he  had  talked  with  Mary 
about  himself  he  had  felt  like  the  young  man  with 
great  possessions  when  that  unreasonable  demand  was 
made  upon  him.  If  he  had  only  had  a  clear  con- 
ception of  what  he  must  leave  and  what  follow! 
Mary  might  help  to  clarify,  but  it  seemed  almost  im- 
possible to  overcome  his  reluctance  to  speak  to  her. 
Perhaps  it  was  indolence  at  the  heart  of  him.  Rude 
circumstance  has  made  great  men  of  those  who  would 
never  have  been  stimulated  from  within. 

He  found  Mary  in  the  little  front  garden  which  had 
hardly  yet  escaped  from  its  winter  dankness.  She 
was  pottering  about,  encouraging  the  spring  flowers 
with  little  kindnesses ;  she  was  an  impulsive  gardener. 


22  TRUE  LOVE 

As  he  approached  he  could  see  her  bending  over  her 
work  and  then  she  straightened  herself  and  looked 
about  questioningly.  She  had  this  way  of  questioning 
her  environment;  she  was  never  dull;  it  might  have 
been  a  startling  world.  She  gazed  at  the  sky  and  then 
at  the  darkling  houses  about  her  as  if  with  appre- 
hension. She  was  young,  much  younger  than  Geof- 
frey, and  dowdily,  demurely  garbed.  You  could  be- 
lieve that  her  clothes  had  been  put  away  in  lavender ; 
she  was  one  of  those  persons  who  could  tend  a  herb 
garden  without  any  degree  of  affectation.  She  was 
timid  and  very  determined,  meek  and  unyielding. 

It  was  light  enough  for  Geoffrey  to  see  the  startled, 
deprecating  look  with  which  she  so  often  accosted 
him.  He  had  sometimes  been  irritated  by  it,  for  it 
seemed  to  accuse  him  of  a  sort  of  brutality.  It  was 
incredible,  but  they  had  their  quarrels.  Her  eyes 
would  flash,  her  hands  clench,  she  would  speak 
vehemently  and  rapidly.  And  he  would  ride  rough- 
shod over  her;  to  his  chagrin,  he  would  lose  his 
temper  and  the  thread  of  his  argument.  All  the  time 
they  agreed  fundamentally  or  might  have  done  so. 
It  was  annoying  that  he  should  be  forced  into  the 
illiberal  attitude  by  her  extravagances.  So  they  ap- 
peared to  him,  and  it  may  be  feared  that  sometimes 
he  listened  to  her  with  the  ears  of  horrified  conven- 
tion, for  he  had  the  social  sense  and  she  had  not. 
Of  course  she  thought  a  great  deal  of  him,  he  was  a 
prime  figure  in  her  world,  as  she  in  his,  and  he  had  to 
guard  against  her  assumptions  of  his  importance. 
And  now  they  met  with  the  consciousness  of  a  hot 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  23 

discussion  on  capital  punishment^  in  which  he  had 
gone  further  than  he  should  in  defense  of  law  and 
she  had  classed  judges  and  hangmen  together  as  the 
true  murderers.  It  had  ended  with  some  shy,  emo- 
tional apologies  which  had  the  effect  of  an  impalpable 
barrier  between  them.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  of  his 
interview  with  Lindsay,  and  he  didn't  want  to  tell  her. 

He  began  to  roll  the  lawn,  and  she  went  on  with  her 
coaxing  and  tidying.  He  pushed  and  pulled  himself 
into  good  humor,  and  presently  they  went  into  the 
house  in  a  state  of  natural  amity.  The  light  of  a 
pleasant  fire  flickered  over  the  walls,  and  the  books 
always  looked  homely.  Here  was  quietude,  a  safe 
retreat;  life  here  with  Mary  would  go  on  deepening 
without  change.  Deepening?  There  was  the  point. 

He  began  rather  abruptly  to  tell  her  of  what  Lind- 
say had  said,  and  she  seemed  to  listen  with  her  startled 
eyes,  interrupting  little  but  always  with  something  on 
his  side;  an  inference  or  assumption  making  for  his 
value  or  importance.  Her  loyalty  was  touching  and 
it  provoked  doubts ;  a  man  may  be  a  good  fellow  and 
shrink  from  impossible  standards ;  he  may  ever  decline 
the  measure  and  exceed  it.  He  began  to  feel  harried. 
He  was  having  a  severe  day;  first  Lindsay  and  now 
Mary.  Lindsay  had  said :  "  I  can't  trust  you  if  you 
don't  trust  yourself,"  and  he  had  replied :  "  You  may 
trust  me  for  a  bit  more  than  I  pretend  to."  At  that 
Lindsay  had  bowed  his  head  in  meditation  and  then 
nodded  assent. 

Geoffrey  told  Mary  this  and  she  said :  "  It's  only 
that  you're  humble." 


24  TRUE  LOVE 

"If  you  would  excel  you  must  not  be  humble,"  he 
said. 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently  at  this,  and  they 
both  recalled  a  half  serious,  paradoxical  argument  in 
which  he  had  enlarged  on  the  arrogance  of  Christ. 
He  had  no  wish  to  pursue  it.  "  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
"  there  are  times  in  life  when  what  one  wants  is  a 
bit  of  hard  thinking  and  a  decision.  I've  drifted 
into  a  place  where  politics  are  necessary.  You 
must  be  interested  in  politics  and  keen  on  your 
side." 

"  Well,  if  your  side  is  the  people's  side "  she 

said. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sound  enough,  I'm  all  right ;  but  this  con- 
tinual holding  your  own  in  argument  isn't  my  line. 
I  suppose  it's  not  caring  enough  about  the  ultimate 
results,  it's  not  applying  imagination  to  the  particular 
thing.  Politics,  you  know,  are  most  awfully  exclu- 
sive. If  you  are  to  be  effectual  you  must  be  ruthless 
to  the  other  side.  You  must  be  adamant.  You  must 
understand  their  case  so  that  you  can  guy  it.  A  politi- 
cal movement  is  justified  by  a  slight  balance  in  its 
favor.  But  who  would  believe  in  you  if  you  summed 
up  so?  You  must  make  it  overwhelming;  a  case  so 
clear  that  it's  half  rhetoric.  It's  possible  on  paper,  but 
not  when  you  come  to  talk  to  people." 

"  There  are  many  things  to  be  done  that  are  clear 
enough,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  but  they're  not  the  things  that  come  next. 
They're  not  what  we're  up  against." 

"  Make  them  so." 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  25 

"  Try,  and  you  spend  your  liie  preaching  in  the 
wilderness." 

"  A  noble  life." 

"  Or  is  it  pure  selfishness?" 

"  Are  you  different  from  the  others — the  men  you 
work  with  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I'm  a  dilettante  beside  them." 

"  That's  hateful." 

"  Yes,  I  hate  to  be  a  dilettante." 

"Then,  why ?" 

"  But  I  shouldn't  hate  to  be  an  artist" 

She  was  silent,  and  he  went  on :  "  These  political 
meetings  seem  stupid  and  inhuman  to  me.  I  can't 
keep  on  one  side.  Or  I  can  only  do  it  when  I  get 
irritated.  That  simplifies  matters." 

"  Then  you  should  be  irritated  by  all  the  injustice 
of  the  world. — Irritated?  Angry.  Indignant." 

Their  talk  was  getting  on  to  old  lines,  and  he  had 
no  heart  for  disputation.  Mary,  as  he  told  her  in 
jocose  moods,  was  a  Red  Republican,  a  Jacobin,  for 
whom  the  mere  liberalism  of  the  Herald  was  too  mild. 
And  if  he  suggested  that  it  is  those  who  care  for 
reform  who  will  compromise,  she  went  off  on  some 
excursion  of  the  fiery  ideal.  The  mere  sanities  did 
not  appeal  to  her,  and,  indeed,  they  are  so  often  merely 
indolence.  She  was  not  satisfied  to  believe  that  wis- 
dom may  be  with  the  extreme;  surely  it  must  be; 
she  was  impatient  of  those  who  would  falter  or  halt 
in  the  generous  impulse;  in  labor  and  sacrifice  she 
would  always  be  with  the  extreme.  And  Geoffrey 
sympathized  with  her  there.  You  may  yield  to  an- 


26  TRUE  LOVE 

other's  power  when  you  would  not  to  another's  will. 
Poor  Mary!  She  dwelt  apart  among  her  ideals,  and 
she  might  have  been  a  pretty  girl  wielding  a  tennis 
racquet.  Men  looked  at  her,  advanced,  and  retired 
disconcerted  or  abashed.  Women  found  some  re- 
proach in  one  who  would  not  make  the  best  of  her- 
self, and  sometimes  presumed  to  pity  her.  She  was 
extremely  courteous  if  you  did  not  vex  her,  she  was 
apt  for  the  humor  of  the  occasion,  but  she  rarely 
contributed  to  the  social  jollification.  Geoffrey  did 
appreciate  her,  and  if  she  had  died  he  would  have 
canonized  her. 

"  I  sometimes  think  I'm  a  poor  creature,  Mary," 
he  said — "  It's  that  you  are  not,"  she  interrupted — 
"  but  I've  doubts,  I  can't  go  for  things  bald-headed, 
like  you." — "  I  only  talk  of  it,"  she  said  generously — 
"  I  suppose  I  shall  always  drift  unless,  indeed,  I  could 
become,  as  Secretan  says,  passionate  on  both  sides." 
"What  did  Mr.  Secretan  mean?" 
"  Well,  it's  the  artist  who's  that  or  may  be." 
"  But  he  can't  escape  right  and  wrong,"  she  said. 
"  His  villains  are  right  if  they're  good  villains." 
"  Will  you  let  me  read  your  play  now  ?  "  she  said. 
This  was  more  to  the  point  than  abstract  argu- 
ment, and  he  thought  now  that  he  would  like  her  to 
read  it.    He  began  to  talk  about  his  intentions  in  the 
play  and  where  his  difficulties  had  been.     She  pro- 
posed that  he  should  read  it  to  her  with  what  com- 
mentary he  pleased,  and  he  liked  the  idea  and  then 
shrank  from  it  in  his  reticent,  self-conscious,  meticu- 
lous way.    With  a  shy  jocularity  she  suggested  herself 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  27 

as  a  touchstone  after  the  kind  of  Moliere's  old  woman. 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  agree  to  her  proposal, 
but  he  held  on  to  the  tail  of  the  subject,  and  they 
drifted  to  talk  of  the  old  days  when  they  used  to  vie 
with  one  another  in  learning  verse — yards  and  yards 
of  verse.  She  would  murmur  her  pieces  in  her  bed- 
chamber, while  he  spouted  his  about  the  house; 
broadly,  he  was  for  the  dramatic  and  she  for  the 
lyrical  or  elegiac.  She  had  had  a  curious  little  secret 
rivalry  with  him,  for  all  her  generosity.  She  was 
proud  of  him  but  that  did  not  save  him  from  flashes 
of  her  contempt.  For,  as  a  youth,  he  was  inveterately 
grandiose  and,  in  the  particular  connection,  stagey. 
He  used  to  make  pencil  drawings  of  big  scenes — 
Hamlet  shouting,  "How  now!  A  rat?"  and  poking 
his  sword  into  the  arras,  or  Othello  taking  lago  by 
the  throat — and  he  would  put  his  figures  on  a  stage 
with  footlights  in  front  of  them.  Mary  ridiculed  this, 
and  he  stuck  to  the  custom  rather  disingenuously,  for 
he  began  to  see  the  absurdity  of  it.  But  he  did  not 
draw  much ;  he  preferred  to  do  the  scenes  "  in  the 
round  "  with  himself  as  the  principal.  Mary  had  been 
induced  to  play  Ophelia  to  his  Hamlet  in  the  "  Get 
thee  to  a  nunnery  "  scene,  but  this  was  in  private  and 
she  would  not  do  it  before  the  family.  He  wanted 
her  to  be  the  Queen  in  Hamlet,  too,  and  submit  to  the 
fiery  denunciation  of  those  speeches  that  are  so  sadly 
curtailed  in  the  acting  versions — the  "  Unpeg  the 
basket  on  the  house's  top,"  and  so  on — but  she  shrank 
from  that;  she  felt  the  gloom  and  horror  of  that 
colloquy  while  he  exulted  in  its  rhetoric.  And  they 


28  TRUE  LOVE 

did  not  go  together  very  well,  for  it  was  natural  for 
her  to  under-act — whether  in  her  life  or  a  play — and 
he  would  roll  out  the  speeches  royally.  The  family 
was  more  than  indulgent  to  him,  and  he  was  some- 
times called  upon  for  the  choice  bits  of  his  repertory 
even  when  friends  were  there.  He  would  resist;  he 
wanted  not  to  do  it  but  he  wanted  to  do  it,  and  some- 
times he  would  and  sometimes  he  would  not.  Finally, 
it  might  be,  he  would  give  them  Hamlet's  "  Oh,  what  a 
rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I ! "  or  even  Othello's 
speech  to  the  council.  Once  at  a  small  entertainment 
he  had  recited  "  The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,"  and 
the  rumor  ran  that  a  lady  had  gone  out;  it  was  too 
tremendous.  And  yet  he  had  failed  to  burst  open  his 
collar  or  to  make  himself  look  a  wreck  as  it  was  said 
Irving  did,  and  this  was  disappointing. 

The  glamour  of  the  theater  had  come  upon  him,  and 
if  he  strutted  and  mouthed  there  was  something  of  a 
child's  sincerity  informing  it  all.  It  was  Shakespeare 
— no  less — that  he  affected,  and  Shakespeare  is  the 
greatest  of  boys'  companions.  The  sound  and  fury 
compelled  him,  but  streaks  of  the  passion  began  to  run 
through  him;  he  nursed  lines  and  phrases,  and  some, 
in  his  later  judgment,  were  middling  and  some  su- 
preme. When  he  went  to  the  theater  he  was  not 
wholly  uncritical,  and,  indeed,  he  had  a  secret  con- 
viction that  he  could  say  the  speeches  better  than  these 
actors  did,  though  he  admired  the  management  of 
their  arms  and  legs.  And,  really,  actors  in  the  classic 
parts  have  some  queer  intonations  and  stresses  that  an 
intelligent  schoolboy  might  avoid.  Of  course,  he 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  29 

yielded  to  the  spell  of  Irving,  and  b^gan  to  imitate  him 
consciously  and  unconsciously.  If  occasion  had 
served  he  might  have  become  an  actor  himself,  and 
he  had  a  dim  notion  of  going  to  see  some  famous 
manager,  compelling  his  attention,  and  astonishing  him 
by  the  power  and  tenderness  of  his  recitations. 

Mary  used  to  go  with  him  to  the  theater  sometimes, 
and  they  did  not  always  admire  the  same  things.  It 
was  faintly  irritating  when  she  picked  out  some  ob- 
scure little  detail — as  it  seemed  to  him — for  the  praise 
that  he  would  lavish  on  the  tirades  or  some  explosive 
scene.  But  sometimes  they  agreed  thrillingly.  She 
told  him  he  was  a  poseur,  and  as  he  was  not  entirely 
unconscious  of  it  his  innocent  gestures  of  the  heroic 
or  diabolical  yielded  to  something  more  subtle  of  their 
kind.  Boys  who  get  beyond  the  simple  appetites  do 
commonly  have  a  period  of  physical  and  mental  pos- 
turing, for  they  imitate  what  seems  good  to  them. 
Geoffrey  thought  himself  a  superior  young  fellow,  no 
doubt,  and  alternately  he  scorned  those  about  him 
who  could  not  share  what  he  thought  his  deeper  life, 
and  made  pathetic  advances  to  them.  For  he  was 
a  companionable  fellow,  on  the  whole,  and  liked  fun 
well  enough.  He  had  some  decent  and  fairly  sincere 
phases  of  self-abasement.  Having  acquired  the  trick 
of  introspection  he  was  dashed  sometimes  at  the  pov- 
erty of  what  he  found  within;  he  examined  himself 
from  without  and  found  much  to  correct.  He  con- 
sidered himself  too  much — it  was  a  relief  sometimes 
to  have  hearty  reactions  among  hearty  people.  Even 
in  his  schooldays,  he  had  been  a  little  over-conscious 


30  TRUE  LOVE 

of  his  personality.  With  others  beating  him  in  one 
thing  or  another,  he  had  framed  the  question :  "  How 
am  I  better  than  others  ?  "  And  yet  when  chance  had 
thrown  in  his  way  that  glibly-used  phrase,  noblesse 
oblige,  he  had  made  of  it  a  secret  possession.  They 
might  be  more  learned  or  stronger  or  swifter  than  he, 
but — he  had  himself,  after  all ;  he  had  a  kind  of  faith. 
Presently  he  was  to  realize  some  of  the  dangers  of 
egoism,  and  when  he  read  Meredith's  great  exposure 
it  was  with  an  amazed  perception  of  the  pitfalls  that 
he  had  not  always  avoided.  If  he  had  had  an  inner 
light  it  was  left  burning  before  a  shrine  while  he 
stumbled  in  the  darkness. 

Geoffrey  had  been  to  an  expensive  preparatory 
school  where  all  was  jolly  and  correct,  but  a  neces- 
sary cutting  down  of  expenses  "  condemned  "  him  to 
the  Grammar  School.  Yet  to  conceive  this  as  con- 
demnation was  unworthy,  for  it  is  a  great  school  and 
worthy  of  the  best.  But  he  had  moments  of  dark 
resentment,  and  as  a  boy  dimly  conceived  himself  as 
a  tragic  figure  overburdened.  He  was  not  altogether 
unconscious  of  his  absurdities  and  arrogances;  some 
touch  of  humility  may  make  the  difference  between 
arrogant  and  noble.  At  the  Grammar  School  he 
found  himself  beaten  in  .scholarship  by  Jews  and 
Armenians,  and  his  national  pride  revolted.  He  began 
to  work  hard,  and  if  he  did  not  always  hold  his  own 
in  class  he  was  not  far  behind.  He  tried  not  to  regard 
foreigners  as  aliens;  he  was  determined  to  be  lib- 
eral. 

He  had  friendships,  if  not  enduring  ones,  and  once 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  31 

an  intimacy  with  one  of  the  older  boys  soon  to  pass 
on  to  the  University,  became  a  subject  of  badinage  or 
reproach  in  the  family.  He  was  accused  of  copying 
Linton,  and  this  became  one  of  the  small  impulsions 
in  a  determination  to  be  himself.  For  when  he  turned 
upon  Linton  for  lights  with  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  inspect  himself,  he  found  it  wouldn't  do  at  all. 
Linton  might  be  all  very  well  for  Linton,  yet  now  he 
perceived  a  danger  in  these  easy  boyish  imitations. 
But  may  you  not  imitate  the  heroic  figures  of  history  ? 
He  realized  that  even  his  inner  life — his  spiritual  life, 
as  he  presumed  to  phrase  it — had  been  made  up  of 
imitations.  All  these  mouthings  and  recitations  of  his 
had  been  imitations.  He  had  proposed  to  interpret 
Othello  and  Hamlet,  and  he  had  imitated  Irving.  It 
was  very  discouraging. 

And  now  when  Mary  proposed  to  him  that  he 
should  read  his  play  to  her  he  cast  back  to  these  old 
times  when,  as  it  seemed  to  him  now,  she  was  so 
simply  and  completely  herself,  while  he  splashed  about 
among  big  figures  and  resounding  phrases.  Once  he 
had  sat  silent  while  she  repeated  the  whole  of  the 
"Adonais,"  and  he  had  thought  she  did  it  rather 
spiritlessly,  but  nevertheless  he  was  humbled;  he  had 
felt  himself  loud  and  shallow  and  rhetorical.  He  did 
not  understand  that  element  of  assertion,  of  defiance, 
that  had  prompted  her  to  the  feat.  His  compliments 
upon  it  had  been  too  extreme  for  perfect  sincerity, 
and  she  had  resented  comparisons  leveled  at  his  own 
superficial  performances.  He  had  been  bitter  with 
himself,  rather  than  generous  to  her,  and  they  had 


32  TRUE  LOVE 

had  a  queer,  strained  disputation  in  which  neither  was 
quite  sincere.  But  they  had  had  many  disputations 
which,  in  the  things  of  the  theater,  ranged  from  Ibsen 
and  A  Doll's  House  to  The  Only  Way,  in  which  and 
its  kind  she  persisted  in  finding,  or  at  least  in  seeking, 
some  sort  of  sincerity,  while  he  would  sweep  them 
aside  as  negligible  and  worse. 

These  things  were  in  his  mind  as  faint  repulsions, 
and  he  felt  that  he  would  not  read  the  play  to  her, 
especially  as  it  is  so  bothering  to  read  a  play  because 
you  must  decide  whether  to  differentiate  the  speakers 
by  alterations  of  tone  or  to  repeat  distractingly  the 
names  before  each  speech.  It  was  a  trifle  to  sway 
him,  but  he  recollected  too  that  he  had  found  her 
vague  and  unsatisfying  about  his  one-act  play.  He 
had  wanted  her  to  say  that  it  was  good,  and  he  could 
have  accepted  a  decision  that  it  was  bad,  but  Mary 
was  not  one  to  be  pinned  down  like  that.  She  would 
not  translate  implications  and  inferences  into  down- 
right praise,  and  he  was  ashamed  to  desire  it.  Re- 
hearsals and  performance  had  made  an  exciting  little 
episode  and  the  play  had  gone  uncommonly  well. 
It  was  a  rather  tremendous  affair — "  too  big  for  its 
boots,"  as  he  said  deprecatingly — with  a  pistol  shot 
and  a  shrill  note  of  tragedy ;  it  was  not  exactly  crude, 
but  it  was  pretentious.  In  a  humble  mood  he  might 
have  said  that  it  was  like  himself,  and  perhaps  Mary 
thought  that,  but  she  could  not  think  it  finally  and 
cruelly.  He  hated  the  idea  of  the  spurious  master- 
piece, and  wished  the  play  had  been  modest  and  fine. 
But  he  had  the  sense  of  the  theater;  he  was  sure  of 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  33 

that,  and,  like  every  quality  worth  having,  it  is  a 
danger  too. 

It  pleased  him  that  the  actors  should  find  his  lines 
uncommonly  hard  to  learn.  They  complained  that  his 
speeches  went  jerkily  and  that  you  couldn't  tell  what 
was  coming  next.  It  seemed  that  there  was  a  conven- 
tional diction  of  the  drama,  in  which  a  sentence  begun 
might  fairly  be  expected  to  finish  itself,  but  that  Arden 
had  a  way  of  pulling  you  up  and  going  off  into  some- 
thing else.  He  was  slightly  uncomfortable  when  one 
of  them  used  the  word  "  staccato  "  to  describe  what  he 
meant.  "  But,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Upjohn,  "  it's  be- 
cause you're  original."  This  was  pleasant,  though 
Arden  didn't  know  precisely  what  he  meant.  They 
were  all  very  nice  about  the  little  play  and  very  polite, 
and  the  principals  assured  him  that  they  liked  the 
parts  and  could  make  something  of  them.  The  man- 
ager was  deferential  and  encouraged  him  to  make  sug- 
gestions or  even,  if  he  pleased,  to  take  a  leading  part 
in  directing  the  rehearsal.  Clearly,  however,  this  was 
not  expected,  and  Arden  was  far  too  uncertain  of 
what  he  wanted,  to  do  anything  of  the  sort.  He  sat 
at  a  little  table  close  up  to  the  middle  of  the  footlights 
with  the  manager,  who  was  the  producer,  and  enjoyed 
the  queer  experience.  It  seemed,  however,  that  noth- 
ing was  further  from  the  minds  of  any  of  them  than 
his  play  as  he  had  conceived  it.  What  did  matter 
enormously  was  the  position  of  the  chairs  and  tables, 
and  whether,  for  instance,  if  Miss  Framlingham  took 
three  paces  to  the  left  it  would  be  possible  for  Mr. 
Upjohn  to  avoid  the  sofa  without  disturbing  Mr, 


34  TRUE  LOVE 

Elleray.  When  they  did  get  to  the  lines,  the  actors 
had  to  be  pulled  up  frequently  because  they  laid  the 
stress  on  conjunctions  or  prepositions,  leaving  the 
passionate  adjectives  and  portly  nouns  enfeebled. 
They  went  astray  like  children,  and  yet  Arden  could 
perceive  that  they  had  the  root  of  the  thing  in  them. 
The  chief  concern  was  with  primitive  points  of  tech- 
nique, but  the  spirit  shone  through  sometimes  in  an 
exquisite  intonation  or  a  gesture  that  shaped  his  mean- 
ing. Once  or  twice  he  intervened  with  an  explana- 
tion of  what  he  had  intended,  and  the  actor  listened 
indulgently  while  the  producer  brooded  over  the  fur- 
niture. 

It  was  queer  and  fascinating,  and  he  began  to  see 
the  charms  of  the  stage  in  its  undress.  The  place  was 
gaunt  and  lofty  and  complicated,  and  everything 
seemed  unfinished  and  ramshackle.  He  was  to  dis- 
cover what  an  amazing  faculty  actors  have  for  closing 
up  the  gaps  and  making  a  plausible  presentment.  That 
is  what  they  do.  They  are  not  students.  They  are 
like  an  architect  whose  concern  is  all  with  the  fagade. 
You  might  as  well  study  human  nature  in  fashion 
plates  as  in  the  theater.  It  is  a  discredited  institution 
nowadays — it  has  got  so  far  on  the  road  to  reform — 
but  it  is  good  fun  and  you  may  easily  persuade  your- 
self that  it  has  great  possibilities.  And,  of  course,  it 
has  if  you  have  the  patience  to  wait  a  generation  or 
two.  Arden  thought  of  it  sometimes  as  a  good  idealist 
should,  and  sometimes  it  was  all  little  more  than  a 
lark. 

While  his  one-act  play  had  been  rehearsing  a  little 


MARY  AND  GEOFFREY  35 

lady  had  peered  in  at  them  and  vsmiled  comprehen- 
sively, and  he  was  told  that  it  was  Miss  Drew.  De- 
cidedly the  theater  is  romantic.  And  does  it  not  strike 
to  the  center  of  things?  It  explores  personality,  it 
gives  personality  its  chance.  That  tiresome  attach- 
ment to  a  particular  series  of  events  which  we  call 
politics  seemed  very  much  less  than  worth  while. 
Miss  Drew  was  rather  a  neat  little  creature;  he  had 
conceived  actresses  as  much  more  flamboyant  than 
that. 

He  had  wondered  whether  the  theater  might  be  a 
possible  way  out  for  him.  Every  young  man  who 
does  not  pay  strict  attention  to  business  dreams  some- 
times of  the  stroke  of  luck — not  unconnected  with 
latent  ability — which  shall  knock  business  silly.  These 
repertory  theaters  have  no  money  in  them,  perhaps, 
but  they  give  you  a  start,  and  they  accustom  you  to 
aim  at  some  sort  of  quality.  Arden  had  not  the  in- 
tention to  write  bad  plays  for  money,  but  it  did  seem 
to  him  that  there  was  room  between  the  impracticable 
idealist  and  the  people  who  thrive  on  popular  rubbish. 
He  had  no  difficulty  in  making  up  sententious  for- 
mulas about  it,  and  he  sometimes  fired  them  off  at 
Mary.  "  Art  must  be  conditioned  and  limited,"  he 
would  say,  and  she  wasn't  very  much  impressed;  she 
wanted  to  know  what  he  felt  and  thought.  It  was 
more  to  the  point  when  he  told  her  that  Miss  Drew, 
who  was  to  have  the  principal  part  in  his  comedy,  was 
in  lodgings  not  very  far  from  them.  "  You'd  like  me 
to  call?  "  she  said  thoughtfully,  and  he  had  affected  to 
consider  it — he  was  not  above  humbugging  himself — 


36  TRUE  LOVE 

and  to  decide  that  it  might  be  useful  to  get  into  touch. 
"  You  could  explain  to  her  what  it  all  means,"  said 
Mary  playfully,  and  he  had  become  sententious  again 
about  the  actor's  instinct  and  his  incapacity  for 
thought  and  judgment.  Mary  had  listened  rather 
skeptically,  and  said  "  They  can't  all  be  like  that," 
and  he  had  laughed  and  agreed,  realizing  that  he  was 
putting  a  thin  layer  of  words  over  a  pleasurable  emo- 
tion. Mary  became  rather  somber,  for  besides  being 
extremely  liberal  she  was  extremely  puritan,  and  call- 
ing upon  young  actresses  was  not  in  her  line.  Yet 
she  was  happier  when  she  thought  of  kindnesses  to  a 
poor  lonely  girl  in  lodgings,  and  though  this  aspect 
hardly  belonged  to  Geoffrey's  idea  of  Miss  Drew,  he 
did  not  discourage  it.  Certainly  she  would  call.  And, 
as  it  was  impossible  for  Mary  to  maintain  an  attitude 
involving  patronage,  she  asked  Geoffrey  if  he  sup- 
posed that  a  brilliant  young  person  like  that  really 
wanted  to  see  her.  "  You  are  my  sister,  you  see," 
he  said  with  bold  jocularity,  and  she  thought  she  did 
see. 


CHAPTER  III 
MARY  AND  SIBYL 

THE  new  comedy  was  a  very  different  matter  from 
the  one-act  play.  Geoffrey  had  judged  that  shrewdly 
and  justly,  but  he  couldn't  make  out  how  good  Alice 
Dean  was.  He  was  ordinarily  a  slow  writer,  but  he 
had  got  on  surprisingly  fast  with  the  first  act,  and  he 
seemed  to  have  made  the  discovery  that  it  is  easy  to 
write  plays.  It  was  an  illusion,  no  doubt,  but  not 
wholly  an  illusion.  His  experiments  in  novel  writing 
had  proved  immensely  laborious,  for  he  ruminated  and 
weighed  and  balanced,  and  he  had  every  trick  of 
delay.  Now  and  then  the  dialogue  had  run  on  a  little, 
but  he  knew  the  dangers  of  dialogue,  and  had  digested 
the  dictum  of  a  famous  novelist,  that  it  must  not  be 
used  when  narrative  would  do  as  well.  And  now  in 
playwriting  he  might  revel  in  unrestricted  dialogue,  or 
so,  at  first,  it  seemed.  Of  course  it  was  not  so  simple 
as  that,  but  he  had  some  good  half -hours  and  was 
sometimes  a  little  alarmed  at  his  facility.  One  speech 
provoked  another,  and  his  characters  seemed  to  do 
the  work  themselves.  It  was  early  in  the  play  that 
he  got  his  great  encouragement.  The  preliminaries 
were  over,  and  he  had  manoeuvered  his  people  into 
position.  And  then,  rapidly,  he  wrote  down  half  a 
dozen  speeches,  pruned  one  of  them  and  stopped.  He 

37 


38  TRUE  LOVE 

could  do  no  more,  he  dare  do  no  more  then.  It  was 
greatly  exciting.  There  had  been  a  revelation,  and 
the  play,  he  saw,  was  not  going  to  be  quite  what  he 
thought;  his  first  conception  of  it  had  been  hard  and 
unkindly.  He  read  the  passage  over  and  over  as  a 
composer  might  test  his  air,  finding  it  sufficient  and 
impeccable.  Oh,  the  life  of  the  artist  was  the  only  one 
worth  living! 

He  got  out  into  the  open  air  and,  pacing  about  the 
little  garden  in  the  spring  morning,  he  felt  extraordi- 
narily happy.  His  mind  soared  away  from  the  play 
vaguely  into  the  new  life.  The  world  was  all  before 
him  and  there  was  no  hurry  about  the  choice.  All  was 
easy;  the  big  things  were  easy.  He  had  found  him- 
self. 

Seeing  Mary  at  the  window,  he  had  the  impulse 
to  tell  her  of  his  great  discovery,  but  even  then  shy- 
ness intervened  and  he  couldn't  do  that.  She  had 
known  that  he  was  at  work  and  must  be  wondering 
what  he  had  come  out  for.  But,  of  course,  writers 
do  pace  about  the  garden  looking  for  ideas,  and  it 
was  not  the  first  time  he  had  done  such  a  thing — the 
difference  was  that  the  idea  had  come  and  was  too  big 
to  live  under  a  roof.  Still,  he  couldn't  very  well  spend 
the  morning  in  the  garden,  though  he  was  reluctant 
to  go  back  to  his  work.  And  then  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  ought  to  have  pursued  the  vein,  he  ought  to 
have  taken  his  fortune  at  the  tide.  He  hastened  back 
to  his  room  and  read  the  passage  again,  though  it  was 
completely  in  his  mind.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
it ;  he  never  had  any  doubt  about  it.  He  made  a  small 


MARY  AND  SIBYL  39 

correction.  Then  he  squared  up  to  the  thing  again 
and  invited  his  characters  to  speak.  They  were  silent. 
Their  intense  life  had  corresponded  with  his  mood 
but  both  had  sunk.  He  must  come  back  to  it  when  his 
energy  was  renewed. 

The  energy  and  the  excitement  were  intermittent, 
but  they  did  not  die  away.  He  wrote  the  first  act 
under  their  influence,  and  good  things  kept  coming 
easily,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  things  not  so  good. 
Then  he  toiled  at  his  second  act  under  deep  dis- 
couragement, feeling  that  he  had  no  more  than  a 
mechanical  design  for  his  play.  He  wished  that  he 
was  Anthony  Trollope  and  could  go  on  doing  a  satis- 
factory day's  work  every  time — no  doubt  Trollope  had 
his  ups  and  downs — but  he  couldn't  spread  out  his  in- 
spiration evenly.  He  would  do  splendidly — or  so  the 
illusion  went — and  he  would  dry  up  or  labor  aridly. 
It  meant  that  he  had  not  learnt  to  work,  to  control 
himself.  And,  of  course,  he  told  himself  that  there  is 
a  difference  between  Anthony  Trollope  and  the 
modern  writer  who  puts  quality  before  copiousness. 
The  modern  way  is  the  more  exhausting,  unless,  in- 
deed, you  are  so  easily  discouraged  that  it  is  all  rest 
and  recreation;  and  it  has  its  dangers  of  strain  and 
emphasis.  You  cannot  carry  on  a  novel  or  a  play  by 
a  series  of  lyrical  inspirations,  and  yet  Geoffrey  was 
conscious  of  passages  in  which  he  had  had  something 
of  the  kind.  His  second  act  suddenly  became  alive 
with  what  he  felt  to  be  a  strange  and  vital  idea.  He 
was  excited  again  and  the  idea  controlled  him.  It 
carried  him  beyond  the  seemliness  of  the  conventions, 


40  TRUE  LOVE 

but  he  knew  it  was  sincere  and  thought  it  was  beauti- 
ful. He  began  the  third  act  in  good  heart  and  it  ran 
well,  theatrically.  Yes ;  he  felt  the  jolly,  sprightly  life 
of  the  theater  in  it,  and  the  idea  was  not  dead,  though 
it  was  overlaid  with  wit  and  fun.  The  fourth  act  was 
simple  and  satisfying;  it  gave  the  plain  word — with 
dignity,  he  hoped. 

He  would  not  be  ashamed  for  Mary  to  see  this 
play,  but  all  art  is  lonely  work.  The  others  see  the 
wit  and  catch  the  ideas  but  not  as  the  artist  sees  them. 
They  may  agree,  but  even  sympathies  and  enthusiasms 
are  perfunctory  to  his  complex  apprehensions  of  his 
own  work;  even  if  it  were  rigid,  his  mold  is  one  and 
theirs  another.  He  was  conscious  that  what  he  did 
fell  far  short  of  ideals,  but  you  will  make  a  priggish 
affair  of  it  if  you  are  always  bothering  about  ideals. 
He  was  half  in  love  with  the  theater,  and  its  glamour 
confused  the  Hymn  to  Beauty  that  he  would  have  had 
clear  and  noble.  And  comedy  cannot  be  entirely  noble. 
At  times  he  felt  himself  a  poseur,  and  his  almost 
austere  conceptions  of  comedy  were  queerly  con- 
founded with  traditions  of  claptrap.  The  theater  is 
practical,  and  even  an  idealistic  manager  has  got  to 
make  things  go ;  he  has  to  work  upon  actors  who  are 
plastic,  but  run  easily  into  molds.  Even  at  a  reper- 
tory theater,  ideals  are  not  very  conspicuous  at 
rehearsal. 

The  cast  for  Alice  Dean  had  been  tentatively  ar- 
ranged. Miss  Drew  was  to  play  Alice,  and  Elleray 
the  man.  Geoffrey  was  away  for  a  week's  holiday 
when  he  heard  that  the  play  was  to  be  put  into 


MARY  AND  SIBYL  41 

rehearsal  immediately,  and  then  followed  Elleray's 
letter.  He  read  it  after  breakfast  under  a  walnut- 
tree  in  a  pleasant  garden  a  few  miles  from  Oxford, 
and  an  interested  hostess  did  her  best  to  sympathize 
with  his  snorts  and  jeers.  For  the  letter  was  a  re- 
quest to  be  permitted  to  "  alter  a  few  lines  "  with  the 
object  of  "  making  the  part  more  sympathetic."  It 
was  not  so  much  that  Elleray  wanted  to  put  things  in, 
but  he  did  very  positively  wish  to  take  things  out.  He 
could  not  give  details  in  the  letter,  but  Geoffrey  might 
"  rest  assured  that  the  greatest  discretion  would  be 
observed,"  and  that  the  character  would  emerge  much 
more  to  the  taste  of  the  audience  than  in  its  original 
condition.  Geoffrey's  accents  of  scornful  incredulity 
presently  provoked  a  peal  of  laughter  from  the  lady. 
He  made  a  rather  sharp  bass  second  to  it,  but  was 
slightly  dashed  when  he  realized  that  she  had  laughed 
at  him.  The  enormity  of  the  offense  was  not  denied, 
but,  after  all,  it  did  not  exceed  the  comic  measure, 
and  in  a  second  duet  of  laughter  he  was  more 
in  tune.  Presently  he  was  concocting  telegrams, 
and  the  one  despatched  was  but  mildly  ironi- 
cal. 

He  got  back  to  Manchester,  and  presently  he  was 
taking  tea  and  muffins  with  Elleray  in  the  "  garden  " 
of  the  big  hotel.  They  were  friendly  to  excess,  and 
Arden  was  wondering  whether  they  would  be  at  one 
another's  throats  presently.  They  trifled  over  ciga- 
rettes till  Arden  picked  up  the  bundle  of  cues  and 
speeches  which  Elleray  had  rather  ostentatiously  laid 
on  the  tea-table.  He  glanced  over  a  page  or  two,  and 


42  TRUE  LOVE 

it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  devil  of 
a  row.  All  sorts  of  salient  things  were  roughly  scored 
out  in  pencil,  and  his  first  impulse  to  kick  over  the 
apple  cart  irrevocably  was  succeeded  by  a  rather  pleas- 
ant feeling  of  power ;  nothing  could  shake  him  and  at 
the  moment  he  cared  very  little  whether  they  did  the 
play  or  not.  So  he  found  no  difficulty  in  being  mild 
and  amiable  and  treating  Elleray  as  a  reasonable  being. 
He  gave  a  little  sketch  of  the  general  intention,  to 
which  Elleray  listened  with  a  slight  sulkiness,  and  then 
they  went  through  the  part  in  detail.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  the  childlike  in  actors  and  perhaps  this  one 
had  been  a  petted  child.  Geoffrey  flattered,  per- 
suaded, directed,  and  his  task  was  easier  than  he  had 
anticipated.  Once  or  twice  he  had  to  be  firm,  once 
or  twice  he  made  trifling  concessions  with  an  air  of 
deferring  to  a  mature  judgment,  and  generally  he 
showed  Elleray  how  good  the  lines  were  which  had 
been  crossed  out,  and  how  remarkably  they  would  tell 
when  they  were  delivered  exquisitely — as  they  would 
be.  Geoffrey  was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  was  act- 
ing despicably  or  with  refinement  of  kindliness  and 
wisdom.  Neither  explicitly  drew  the  inference  that 
Elleray  had  been  a  fool,  but  this  was  somewhere  in 
the  consciousness  common  to  them.  The  lines  were 
restored,  Elleray  having  thoughtfully  provided  him- 
self with  a  piece  of  india-rubber.  They  parted  amic- 
ably, though  Elleray  managed  to  convey  presage  of 
disaster  to  the  play.  "Well,  it'll  be  a  rare  pleasure 
to  me  to  see  you  play  the  part,"  said  Geoffrey.  He 
had  certainly  exercised  self-control,  and  when  the 


MARY  AND  SIBYL  43 

actor  had  left  him :  "  Who  says  Km  not  a  strong 
man  ?  "  he  demanded  of  the  universe. 

With  hesitations  and  misgivings,  Mary  had  decided 
to  call  on  Miss  Drew,  and  it  was  really  almost  an 
heroical  undertaking  for  her.  After  touching  lightly 
on  the  possibility  or  desirability  of  it,  Geoffrey  had 
said  no  more  about  the  matter,  but  Mary  knew  it  was 
in  his  mind  and  she  was  too  loyal  to  dismiss  it  from 
hers.  Miss  Drew  was  not  at  home,  and  so  an  invi- 
tation to  tea  followed.  This,  however,  was  a  conse- 
quence of  a  hint  after  poor  Mary  had  thought  herself 
decently  out  of  it  for  the  time.  However,  the  two  got 
on  rather  pleasantly  together,  as  foes  might  during 
an  armistice  in  the  days  of  chivalry.  Mary  could  not 
but  approve  of  Miss  Drew's  quiet  manners  which  had 
nothing  about  them  of  stage  meretriciousness,  and 
Geoffrey  was  only  doubtful  whether  Mary  wasn't  a 
little  too  markedly  kind.  If  he  had  been  away  they 
might  have  got  nearer  to  intimacy.  They  talked  scrap- 
pily  during  tea  and  seemed  to  be  a  thousand  miles 
from  any  vital  interest.  "  This  woman  has  got  to 
justify  herself,"  said  Geoffrey  heavily  to  himself.  She 
was  going  to  play  Alice  Dean,  and  so  he  waited  for 
some  convincing  display  of  ability.  It  was  stupid  of 
him,  for  he  was  intensely  conscious  of  her  and  he 
wasn't  just  a  boy  falling  in  love ;  he  was  critical  and 
he  was  stimulated.  It  did  occur  to  him  that  he  wasn't 
being  very  brilliant  himself. 

Cigarettes  were  produced,  and  they  thawed  a  little 
over  the  paradoxical  circumstance  that  Mary  smoked 
and  Miss  Drew  didn't.  Mary  began  to  explain  how 


44  TRUE  LOVE 

she  came  to  smoke,  and  Sibyl  how  it  was  that  she  did 
not,  while  Geoffrey  made  shy  comments  about  bridg- 
ing the  chasm  and  taking  the  edge  off  yourself.  Then 
he  plunged  suddenly  into  the  subject  in  their  minds, 
and  asked  Miss  Drew  how  she  liked  the  play  and 
the  part,  what  her  opinions  were  or  her  resentments, 
whether  it  was  going  to  be  an  interest  or  a  bore.  He 
talked  away,  giving  her  a  little  time  to  prepare,  but 
presently  he  stopped  and  confronted  her.  She  did  not 
reply  at  once,  and  the  others  waited  as  if  for  a  mo- 
mentous decision;  and  then  she  turned  to  Mary  and 
said:  "Do  you  like  it?" 

Mary  was  startled  and  for  a  moment,  confused. 
Then  she  said  colorlessly :  "  I  haven't  read  it" 

Sibyl  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and  then  wished 
she  hadn't  done  so.  She  was  conscious  of  the  other 
woman's  jealousy,  and  Mary  had  hardly  the  desire  to 
conceal  it.  Geoffrey  was  full  of  his  play,  and  of  that 
part  of  it  which  this  girl  would  represent.  It  was 
now  his  strongest  interest,  and  Mary  felt  that  she  was 
outside  it.  Doubtless  he  wanted  to  talk  to  this  Miss 
Drew  intimately  and  searchingly,  and  to  pour  out  his 
own  ideas  and  intentions.  She  wanted  to  leave  them 
to  it,  and  yet  she  felt  incapable  of  going  away  on 
the  right  note.  What  was  the  right  note?  She  re- 
sented her  exclusion  bitterly,  but  she  would  like  to 
be  coolly  friendly  about  it — coolly,  not  coldly — and 
she  was  afraid  that  if  she  got  up  to  go  she 
would  cry.  There  was  hardly  a  pause  before 
Geoffrey  said :  "  It's  queer  that  Mary  hasn't  read 
it." 


MARY  AND  SIBYL  45 

"  But  you  never  gave  me  the  chance,"  she  said 
mildly. 

"  No.  And  the  curious  thing  is,"  he  said,  turning 
to  Sibyl,  "  that  she's  a  good  critic  and  could  help.  I 
don't  mean  a  good  critic,  but  she  sees  things  that 
others  don't." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  make  her  read  it  ?  " 

"Why?"  said  Geoffrey.  "Why  do  we  boggle 
everything?  Why  do  we  miss  our  chances  and  do 
the  wrong  things?  And  the  literary  man,  the  play- 
writer,  is  a  shrinking,  sensitive  creature." 

"  I  thought  he  was  as  bold  as  brass,"  said  Sibyl. 

"  Shrinking  from  what  ?  "  said  Mary.  She  under- 
stood well  enough  but  she  nursed  her  resentment. 
And  she  didn't  want  this  woman  to  come  to  her  as- 
sistance. In  her  heart  she  was  afraid  of  liking  her, 
and  she  would  have  been  eagerly  friendly  at  any  sign 
of  weakness  or  friendlessness.  Miss  Drew  appeared 
rather  a  competent  little  person;  she  was  decidedly 
handsome  and  not  at  all  prepared  to  be  pathetic. 
Geoffrey  didn't  make  any  reply  to  their  last  remarks, 
and  Mary  rose  with  quite  a  well-executed  little  laugh, 
and  said  that  she  would  leave  them  to  thresh  out  the 
character  together.  But  Sibyl  demurred.  She  said, 
"  I'll  come  again  when  Miss  Arden  has  read  it — if 
you'll  let  me.  I  shall  want  her  to  help  me  against 
you."  This  was  not  perfectly  intelligible,  and  Mary 
was  in  the  mood  which  a  downright  man  might  have 
expressed  in  "  Damn  your  magnanimities."  Geoffrey 
said,  "  What's  wrong  with  Alice  ?  " 

A  kind  of  madness  prompted  Mary  to  say,  "  Is  your 


46  TRUE  LOVE 

name  Alice?  "  She  didn't  positively  know — she  didn't 
more  than  half  know — that  it  was  the  name  of  the 
woman  in  the  play.  Geoffrey  explained  rather  dog- 
gedly, and  then  there  was  a  little  sharp  laughter. 
Mary  sat  down  again  and  said  to  Sibyl,  "  What  is  it 
you  want  with  me  ?  How  am  I  to  help  you  ?  " 

"  It's  his  view  of  women — of  a  woman,"  Sibyl  said. 
"  There  are  things  I  resent."  She  paused  and  then 
said,  "  That's  all." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  alter  it?"  said  Geoffrey 
with  an  alarmed  side-glance  of  his  mind  upon  Elleray. 
She  laughed  and  said,  "  Would  you  ? "  while  Mary 
tried  to  look  politely  detached. 

"  I'm  always  open  to  reason,"  he  said. 

"  I  thought  the  artist  needn't  be,"  said  Sibyl,  and 
then  he  tried  to  explain  how  reason,  taste,  emotion 
all  combined  into  a  sort  of  dogmatism  on  which  you 
would  stake  your  life.  "  When  you  get  things  right, 
you  know  it,"  said  Geoffrey. 

She  began  to  pay  him  pretty  compliments  on  the 
play  and  he  became  restive.  Then,  "Of  course  I 
know  it's  awfully  good,"  she  said,  "  and  different  from 
a  lot  of  the  stuff  we  have  to  do."  He  couldn't  get 
much  out  of  her,  and  soon  she  went  away. 

"  A  pretty  little  woman,"  said  Mary  lightly,  and  she 
was  conscious,  Geoffrey  was  conscious,  that  this 
wouldn't  quite  do,  that  it  wasn't  so  easy  as  that.  Sibyl 
had  impressed  her — not  by  what  she  had  done  or  said 
but  by  her  reserves.  A  pretty  woman  with  an  air  of 
reserve  may  become  a  piquant  experience  and  Miss 
Drew  certainly  wasn't  a  chattering  nonentity.  To, 


MARY  AND  SIBYL  47 

pursue  her  into  her  fastnesses  might  J)e  rare  sport  for 
the  subtle  wooer,  and  if  it  turned  out  all  means  and 
no  particular  end,  if  the  fastnesses  were  empty,  it 
might  be  difficult  to  find  a  way  back.  Mary's  thoughts 
might  hardly  be  phrased  so,  and  yet  she  and  Geoffrey 
had  something  like  this  in  common.  He  had  not 
reached  the  tender  and  chivalrous  state  of  love — there 
was,  indeed,  a  little  canniness  left — and  she  was 
almost  afraid  to  discover  that  Sibyl  was  human  and 
beautiful.  Poor  Mary  was  ready  to  despise  herself, 
and  yet  would  cling  to  cautions  and  distrusts  that  did 
represent  something  of  danger  to  her  brother.  What 
could  she  give  him  of  romance  and  of  the  ecstasies? 
She  gave  a  timid  affection,  she  was  capable  of  a 
dogged  devotion,  if  he  chose  a  life  of  acquiescences 
she  would  minister  to  his  comfort.  For  herself,  the 
celibate's  life  seemed  ordained,  though  deep  in  her 
heart,  it  may  be,  amazement  and  resentment  were 
buried.  She  had  a  brother  and  was  missing  him  in 
this  intricate  maze  of  feelings  and  repulsions.  And 
then  these  women  from  outside  come  blundering  in 
and  they  are  baited  with  the  trivial  femininities ;  be- 
hind, perhaps,  are  the  glories,  the  appetites,  the  des- 
tinies. 

She  and  Geoffrey  sat  at  dinner  together  that  even- 
ing and  he  said,  "  You  really  must  read  that  play. 
It's  absurd  that  I  shouldn't  have  made  you  do  it 
before."  And  she  said,  "  Oh,  yes ;  I'd  like  to." 

And  then  they  discussed  Miss  Drew  and  agreed  that 
though  she  might  lack  stage  presence — Mary  smiled 
secretly  while  she  used  this  phrase — she  had  an  at- 


48  TRUE  LOVE 

tractive  personality  and  should  give  an  incisive  per- 
formance. They  agreed  that  the  rehearsals  would  be 
interesting  and  the  first  night  exciting,  that  they  would 
have  dinner  at  the  German  restaurant  before  the  play, 
and  that  it  would  be  jolly  to  make  up  a  little  party. 
They  were  pleased  and  merry,  and  she  liked  to  see 
him  kindle  frankly  in  a  sort  of  schoolboy  anticipation 
and  excitement.  Some  word  about  the  play  itself 
checked  him  and  he  fell  into  a  brooding ;  she  saw  him 
then  as  deep  and  sincere,  the  uncompromising  artist. 
She  had  her  pride  in  him,  but  the  wider  and  higher 
he  flew  the  farther  she  would  be  left  behind.  She 
had  lost  him;  and  she  was  too  late;  she  had  never 
had  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 
REHEARSAL 

IT  still  seemed  a  queer  adventure  for  Geoffrey  Arden 
to  make  inquiries  at  a  stage-door,  and  the  highly  re- 
spectable commissionaire  looked  at  him  with  suspicion 
till  he  gave  his  name,  upon  which  he  was  rather  fussily 
conducted  down  stairs,  and  along  crooked  ways  into 
the  bowels  of  the  earth.  He  passed  through  some 
gaunt,  ill-defined  spaces  and  encountered  one  or  two 
groups  of  ladies  and  men,  who  glanced  at  him  curi- 
ously, before  proceeding  with  what  appeared  to  be 
desultory  conversations.  Then  he  emerged  upon  the 
stage  and  was  confronted  with  the  empty  circles  and 
the  gaping  pit.  It  was  strange  and  grandiose  and 
artificial,  and  perhaps  it  was  something  artificial  in 
his  mood  that  prompted  the  idea  that  here  was  a  sub- 
ject for  a  sonnet;  a  sonnet  with  hollow  echoes  and 
reverberations.  The  idea  was  in  the  easy,  vague  phase 
and  he  had  not  time  to  pursue  it.  Upjohn,  who  was 
the  producer  for  the  occasion,  effected  a  few  casual 
introductions,  and  polite  inanities  followed.  Then 
Miss  Drew  appeared,  looking  very  much  like  a  young 
lady  setting  off  to  shop  in  St.  Ann's  Square,  and  she 
and  Geoffrey  shook  hands.  They  had  not,  so  far,  got 
very  deep  into  the  recesses  of  Alice  Dean's  character, 
and  Geoffrey  wanted  to  say  something  illuminating 

49 


50  TRUE  LOVE 

about  it.  She  asked  him  a  question  or  two,  but  he  felt 
something  of  the  restiveness  of  the  dramatist  called 
upon  to  explain  what  happens  off  the  stage.  He  re- 
alized suddenly  that  he  didn't  know  very  much  about 
it,  and  so  he  took  the  bold  line  that  it  wasn't  his 
business.  "  That's  for  you,"  he  said ;  "  I  dare  say 
my  explanations  would  only  confuse  you." 

"  But  I  may  see  it  all  wrong." 

"  Then  I've  failed." 

There  was  a  sham  air  of  finality  about  this,  but  he 
went  on :  "  You  must  see  it  whole.  It  must  be  your 
conception." 

"  But  it  must  be  part  you  and  part  me,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  flattering  intimacy  about  this,  and  he 
smiled  acquiescence.  Yet  why  was  he  saying  these 
things  to  her?  Was  it  sheer  inspiration  of  the  mean- 
ingless accident  of  wayward  talk?  He  had  intended 
to  drill  her  into  his  notions  of  the  part.  And  yet, 
no  doubt,  she  was  a  young  woman  with  a  will 
who  had  every  intention  of  doing  things  her  own 
way. 

There  was  a  mild  little  marshaling  of  ideas,  some 
experimental  talk  that  didn't  matter  greatly.  They 
were  two  young  people  happy  together,  and  if  some- 
thing from  their  graver  lives  intruded  it  was  but  as 
the  rare  flavoring  to  a  common  dish.  Geoffrey  now 
was  not  serious  as  when  he  wrote  the  play.  She  was 
not  serious  as  presently  she  would  be,  grappling  with 
her  part. 

Elleray  appeared,  and  his  air  was  one  of  intense 
preoccupation.  He  was,  indeed,  immersed  in  the  tech- 


REHEARSAL  51 

nicalities  of  his  work,  overwhelmedjby  the  mere  neces- 
sity of  learning  words.  At  night  he  would  be  acting 
a  half-assimilated  part,  now  he  was  to  struggle  with 
"  this  half-baked  stuff  of  Arden's,"  already  the  next 
week's  big  thing  was  hammering  at  his  mind.  To  be 
leading  actor  in  a  repertory  company  is  an  important 
way  of  living,  but  not  a  comfortable  one.  Allowances 
must  be  made  for  Elleray,  whose  talent  was  perpetu- 
ally in  the  forcing  house.  It  seemed  that  he  never 
could  rest  except  when  he  was  acting;  then  he  could 
achieve  marvels  of  reticence  or  immobility.  To-day 
he  appeared  at  the  same  time  to  be  inscrutable  and 
communicative.  The  communications  were  mainly 
about  lapses  in  management  or  failures  to  appreciate 
his  point  of  view.  Miss  Drew  regarded  him  humor- 
ously. 

Upjohn  came  to  Arden,  scrip  in  hand,  and  con- 
sulted him  about  one  or  two  points  in  the  action.  The 
scrip  was  scored  with  many  pencil  markings  and  mem- 
oranda, and  Geoffrey  said  apologetically  that  he  was 
afraid  his  stage  directions  didn't  help  much.  They 
were  extremely  meager,  and  he  thought  that  perhaps 
the  producer  would  rejoice  in  a  comparatively  free 
hand.  He  put  this  point  to  Upjohn,  who  said :  "  Some- 
body's got  to  do  it,"  with  the  air  of  an  overworked 
man.  And  Geoffrey's  heart  sank  at  the  idea  that  he 
was  not  very  thorough.  Perhaps  he  should  have  care- 
fully scored  every  action  and  movement  like  those 
modern  dramatists  who  knew  the  color  of  their  hero- 
ines' eyes,  and  how  many  steps  down  the  stage  they 
take  before  they  say  "  Good-morning."  Perhaps  he 


52  TRUE  LOVE 

ought  to  have  insisted  on  being  his  own  producer,  and 
on  molding  all  the  performances  to  his  own  full  and 
perfect  conception.  It  is  depressing  to  think  that  you 
aren't  thorough,  but,  after  all,  there  are  different  kinds 
of  vision.  You  may  be  satisfied  with  the  heart  of 
the  thing.  You  may  toss  your  work  to  the  actors, 
knowing  that  a  little  more  or  a  little  less  of  their 
control  doesn't  matter.  Heavens!  Where  would  the 
novelists  and  poets  be  if  they  were  to  be  made  re- 
sponsible for  all  the  expositions  of  their  work?  No; 
it  wasn't  a  very  close  analogy.  But  where  are  Shake- 
speare's stage  directions? 

Geoffrey  didn't  say  all  this  to  Upjohn,  but  he 
thought  some  of  it  afterwards.  He  had  a  vague  idea 
that  Upjohn  might  say  that  the  play  was  a  splendid 
one  and  should  be  a  great  success,  or  that  it  was  won- 
derfully subtle  and  deserved  it.  However,  it  didn't 
occur  to  Upjohn  to  say  anything  of  the  kind,  and, 
indeed,  you  must  not  look  for  the  expert  to  do  his 
handlings  of  masterpieces  reverently.  He  has  to  get 
through  with  his  job,  and  a  masterpiece  may  stand 
for  overwork  and  exhaustion  and  the  need  of  a  holi- 
day. Upjohn  was  a  man  who  would  naturally  have 
brought  things  to  a  high  state  of  refinement  leisurely, 
and  here  he  was,  condemned  to  vigorous  half -meas- 
ures. He  had  the  air  of  a  disturbed  dreamer,  a  man 
called  up  in  an  emergency  and  doing  his  best. 
No  doubt  he  conceived  himself  as  an  artist,  but 
he  was  a  harassed  one,  compromising  right  and 
left. 

Most  of  the  actors  scattered  about  had  the  appear- 


REHEARSAL  53 

ance  of  slackness  and  leisure ;  they  were  ready  to  play 
a  little  at  life  when  they  were  ^ffot  wanted  on  the 
stage.  But  there  was  a  cry  of  "Alice  Dean;  Act  I.," 
and  everything  became  more  businesslike.  The  idle 
actors  left  the  scene,  those  who  were  "  on  "  got  into 
position;  Geoffrey  and  Upjohn  seated  themselves  at 
the  table  by  the  footlights  and  a  stage-manager  hov- 
ered about  at  Upjohn's  disposal.  The  producer  should 
be  an  absolute  dictator,  and  if  an  actor  is  a  bigger 
man  than  he,  it  is  bad  form  to  presume  upon  it.  To 
Arden  it  seemed  that  much  of  what  Upjohn  did  and 
said  was  open  to  question,  but  it  wasn't  questioned. 
It  was  an  early  rehearsal  and  so  the  actors  were  per- 
mitted to  carry  their  parts  in  their  hands.  Some 
simply  read  them,  some  refreshed  their  memories 
continually,  Miss  Drew  seemed  to  know  her  words. 
She  did  not  act  much,  but  her  recital  had  some  prom- 
ising modulations.  She  begins,  Geoffrey  thought,  by 
being  perfectly  intelligent.  He  was  uneasy.  To  be 
intelligent  is  a  good  deal,  but  it  is  not  to  act  and  she 
kept  on  this  plane  of  understanding  astonishingly.  He 
was  assured  of  her  sympathy,  then?  Not  quite.  He 
was  only  sure  that  she  understood  a  great  deal ;  per- 
haps she  was  even  capable  of  finding  him  out.  He  was 
missing  details  and  he  answered  stupidly  when  Upjohn 
appealed  to  him  about  some  small  point ;  Upjohn  was 
punctilious  in  appealing  to  the  author  over  what  did 
not  matter.  With  something  between  impatience  and 
humility  Arden  intimated  that  he  hadn't  mastered  the 
technique  of  furniture,  and  Upjohn  responded  with 
some  platitude  about  the  need  for  the  material  even 


54  TRUE  LOVE 

in  the  intellectual  drama.  It  was  intended  rather  to 
appease  than  to  provoke,  but  Arden  was  impelled  to 
say:  "Do  you  realize  that  this  play  is  crammed  with 
emotion?"  He  said  it  out  loud  so  that  the  actors 
could  hear. 

Upjohn  looked  startled,  and,  indeed,  the  interjection 
was  excessive.  Miss  Drew  had  provoked  it,  and 
Geoffrey  subsided  with  a  murmur  about  intelligence 
not  being  everything.  There  was  a  slight,  awkward 
pause,  and  Upjohn,  mystified,  said,  "Well,  well — to 
resume  " — and  they  went  on  again.  Geoffrey  was  con- 
scious that  Miss  Drew  had  looked  at  him  inquiringly ; 
it  was  more  than  that,  it  was  protestingly.  And  then 
she  began  to  act  furiously.  She  poured  emotion  into 
it,  she  used  large  gesture.  She  made  it  all  too  rhetori- 
cal. He  was  startled,  and  the  other  actors  seemed  a 
little  astonished,  but  they  responded  in  some  degree, 
and  the  play  began  to  take  on  life.  Upjohn  was  puz- 
zled, and  muttered  something  about  "  letting  herself 
go  a  bit."  She  was  like  an  athlete  exercising  gently 
who  suddenly  extends  himself  and  puts  on  the  pace. 
Geoffrey  was  not  sure  how  much  he  liked  it.  She 
went  beyond  him,  she  seemed  to  be  neither  Alice  Dean 
nor  Miss  Sibyl  Drew.  He  was  vaguely  jealous,  he 
hadn't  time  to  judge  or  think,  and  he  couldn't  trust 
his  impressions.  It  was  stimulating,  and  he  perceived 
that  these  rehearsals  were  going  to  be  difficult  and 
fearfully  interesting.  He  was  losing  his  hold  on  the 
play.  It  had  seemed  to  have  a  finality  of  form,  a 
kind  of  perfection,  and  now  this  girl  was  shattering 
and  rending  and  making  a  flux  of  what  had  been  hard 


REHEARSAL  55 

and  stable.  "  Confound  these  actors !  "  he  said  to  him- 
self— disingenuously. 

At  the  end  of  the  act  there  was  a  short  interval 
while  Upjohn  addressed  various  cautions  or  incite- 
ments to  particular  actors.  Geoffrey  went  up  to  Miss 
Drew,  who  met  him  smilingly,  and  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 

He  said :     "  I  don't  understand  you  yet." 

"  You  mean  I  don't  understand  Alice  Dean  ?  " 

He  reflected.  Then,  "  Or  is  it  that  I  don't  under- 
stand her?" 

"  Well,  now,  that's  generous,"  she  said. 

"You  actors  are  a  disturbing  element.  I  think 
I  shall  go  in  for  marionettes  like  Gordon 
Craig." 

"  What  jolly  rehearsals  you'll  have,"  she  said,  and 
he  followed  her  glance  up  at  the  flies  with  its  sugges- 
tion of  strings  and  wires  and  wretched  little  dolls 
at  the  end  of  them.  They  laughed  together,  and  she 
shuddered  a  little,  at  which  he  wondered  passingly 
whether  she  was  acting  now,  and  whether  there  was 
in  her  mind,  as  in  his,  a  vision  of  arid,  jerking  dolls 
in  the  empty  theater  and  all  the  actors  dead.  There 
was  quite  a  pause  before  he  answered :  "  I  admit  that 
this  is  better  fun." 

"Did  you  like  it?"  she  said— "just  now?" 

"It?" 

"  When  I — Alice  Dean,  you  know.  You  thought 
we  had  gone  to  sleep." 

"  Oh,  but  really "  he  began  deprecatingly. 

"We  have  to  please  you,"  she  said,  and  when  he 


56  TRUE  LOVE 

came  to  think  of  her  and  this  speech  afterwards,  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  at  all  what  proportions 
to  give  it  of  irony,  pride,  or  humility. 

He  said:  "Does  the  author  really  matter?"  and 
she :  "  You  think  we  have  no  conscience  ?  " 

At  that  Upjohn  came  bustling  up  and  the  rehearsal 
went  on.  It  continued  for  hours,  and  Geoffrey  went 
out  for  a  sandwich  when  he  heard  that  there  was 
no  lunch  interval.  He  didn't  know  whether  the  actors 
fasted  or  lunched  in  corners  at  odd  moments,  but 
when  he  returned  they  were  still  rehearsing  and  he 
felt  apologetic.  The  rehearsal  ended  after  three 
o'clock,  and  then  the  cheerful,  overworked  creatures 
melted  rapidly  away.  The  time  of  the  next  rehearsal 
was  announced,  and  Geoffrey  perceived  that  Upjohn 
was  intent  on  extrication  from  his  company.  This 
was  accomplished,  and  Geoffrey  wandered  vaguely 
down  the  back  street  on  which  the  stage-door  opened. 
He  had  not  the  definite  intention  of  intercepting  Miss 
Drew,  but  when  he  turned  and  saw  her  slowly  ap- 
proaching, he  knew  what  he  wanted.  She  seemed 
neither  to  avoid  nor  seek  his  company.  He  suggested 
tea  with  some  doubt  whether  it  ought  not  to  be  lunch. 
She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  then  at  the  watch  on 
her  wrist,  and  then  she  gazed  for  a  time  at  the  sky 
over  the  tops  of  the  warehouses ;  for  the  moment  she 
reminded  him  of  Mary.  She  consented  simply,  and 
they  went  into  what  was  called  the  garden  of  the  big 
hotel.  It  was  occupied  thinly  and  drearily  by  belated 
lunchers  and  nondescript  idlers;  it  had  a  slightly 
rakish  air;  it  was  not  a  happy  environment.  How- 


REHEARSAL  57 

ever,  the  teapot  made  a  difference,  and  they  talked 
pleasantly  without  hurrying  to  the  importances. 

Presently  she  leaned  over  the  table  and  said :  "  You 
did  think  me  stupid." 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  you  were  all  very 
intelligent.  But  " — he  paused — "  you  seemed  to  he 
missing  everything." 

"  Seeing  things  and  not  feeling  them  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Well,  if  I  must  be  honest " 

"  Oh,  let's  be  honest !  "  she  cried. 

"  Then,"  he  said  with  a  rather  shaky  sternness,  "  I 
felt  it  more  of  you  than  the  others.  I  don't  know  that 
they  were  so  very  intelligent.  But  you  seemed  to 
understand  and  yet  you  made  me  feel  that  there 
wasn't  much  in  it — until " 

"Until?" 

"  Until  you  burst  out." 

"You  liked  that?" 

"  Well,  it  was  strange." 

"  Don't  you  like  things  strange  ?  " 

He  said :    "  It's  my  play." 

"  And  if  I  said  it's  my  part?  " 

"  Of  course,  I'm  quite  unreasonable,"  he  said.  "  You 
were  splendid." 

"  When  I  burst  out,  as  you  call  it,"  she  said,  "  I  was 
angry.  I  thought  you  should  let  us  get  at  it  our  own 
way.  We  were  only  reading  our  parts  this  morning." 

He  assented,  and  then  he  began  to  develop  a  little 
lecture  on  the  actor  and  the  play;  it  was  partly  theo- 
retical and  partly  felt.  He  told  her  that  there  is  a 
natural  opposition  between  actor  and  author.  "We 


58  TRUE  LOVE 

want  you  to  interpret,"  he  said,  "and  you  want  to 
create.  You  think  your  personalities  are  the  thing, 
but  it's  our  ideas  that  matter."  He  tried  to  escape 
heaviness  by  suggesting  the  play  as  the  child  of  his 
fancy  adventuring  among  ruffians,  "and  you,  no 
doubt,"  he  said,  "  think  you're  doctors  trying  to  save 
a  ricketty  child." 

She  listened  sullenly,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  not 
getting  on  brilliantly.  "  You're  the  very  superior  sort 
of  author,"  she  said.  "  I've  met  one  or  two  of  your 
kind.  You  write  a  comedy,  and  then  implore  the 
actors  not  to  spoil  it  by  being  funny;  and  if  it's  a 
tragedy,  you  want  them  to  keep  pleasant  all  the  time." 

He  laughed  unaffectedly  at  that  and  it  thawed  her 
a  little,  but  he  persisted  in  forcing  this  notion  of  the 
essential  opposition.  Perhaps  he  was  proud  of  the 
idea;  perhaps  the  deepening  of  his  relation  with  her 
engendered  a  kind  of  revulsion.  He  was  over-austere, 
he  was  rather  ridiculous.  Suddenly  he  saw  her  as  a 
pathetic,  lonely  figure.  He  remembered  with  shame 
the  theory  of  some  bold  talker  that  the  actress  to  be 
supreme  must  be,  among  other  things,  a  courtesan. 

Poor  girl.  What  an  affront  to  her  fine  delicacy  that 
such  a  thought  should  cross  his  mind !  She  was  alone. 
These  actresses  are  strangely  detached.  If  they  have 
mothers  and  fathers  these  are  appendages. 

He  wanted  to  be  nice  to  her,  and  this  took  the 
primitive  form  of  a  generous  order  for  cakes.  She 
was  his  match  in  wits,  she  appeared  highly  competent 
and  self-contained,  and  yet,  at  times,  she  appealed 
to  him  as  a  child.  He  just  wanted  to  gratify  her  and 


REHEARSAL  69 

he  said:  "What  a  beautiful  enunciation  you  have! 
It's  almost  like  that  of  a  foreigner" 

"  A  foreigner  ?  "  she  said,  and  he  feared  that  he  had 
offended,  but  she  smiled  obscurely.  "  You  would  not 
make  an  alliance  with  a  foreigner?  "  she  said. 

"An  alliance?" 

Hurriedly  she  said,  "Yes.  An  artistic  alliance. 
We  actors  are  foreigners  to  you." 

He  felt  extraordinarily  friendly  to  her,  and  it  needed 
all  his  native  caution  and  his  acquired  punctilio  to 
prevent  his  saying  something  excessive,  rash,  or  pre- 
mature. It  is  difficult  to  keep  the  wit  cold  when  you 
speak  about  alliance  with  a  mysterious,  intriguing, 
young  woman.  So  she  appeared  to  him,  and  perhaps 
the  childlike  in  her  was  a  most  dangerous  quality. 
Happily,  he  hit  a  note  sincere  and  friendly.  "  I've 
been  captious,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm  a  fool.  You're  a 
wonderful  actress  and  I'm  as  pleased  as  Punch  to 
have  you  in  my  play.  Will  you  believe  that  I'm  enjoy- 
ing it  tremendously  ?  I'm  grateful  to  you.  I'm  grate- 
ful, really." 

He  leaned  over  the  table  and  looked  frankly,  smil- 
ingly, into  her  eyes.  He  was  startled  to  see  them  fill 
with  tears.  She  looked  away  quickly,  but  she  could 
not  disguise  the  fact  nor  he  his  commiseration.  "  Have 
I  been  very  brutal  ?  "  he  said,  and  she  shook  her  head. 
She  stretched  out  her  hand  and  he  was  startled  again 
at  the  idea  that  she  was  going  to  shake  hands  with 
him.  Fortunately,  he  had  not  time  to  commit  him- 
self to  this  idea,  for  she  merely  took  a  cake  from  the 
dish,  a  handsome  little  cake  with  pink  sugar  on  it. 


60  TRUE  LOVE 

He  found  this  curiously  affecting.  He  thought  she 
didn't  want  the  cake  and  interpreted  it,  rightly  enough, 
as  a  pathetic  little  clutch  at  composure. 

"  I'm  not  without  emotion,  you  see,"  she  said  pres- 
ently. And  then  she  added :  "  I  go  like  that  when 
people  are  kind  to  me." 

"  But "  he  said,  and  she  interrupted  him :  "  Oh, 

don't  think  I  mean  that  people  are  unkind.  I've  a  jolly 
time,  I  can  tell  you." 

And  then  she  began  to  speak  most  handsomely  about 
his  play,  and  they  were  bathed  in  a  very  uncritical 
glow  of  mutual  admiration.  It  was  delightful,  and 
nature's  subtle  allurements  were  at  work  beautifully 
between  them.  So  generous  they  were,  so  pleased 
with  one  another,  and  they  parted  in  the  utmost  amity. 
"  I  was  rather  brutal,"  he  said,  and  "  No,  but  I  was 
sulky,"  she  said.  Perhaps  they  were  sane  enough  to 
see  some  comic  aspects  of  it  when  they  cooled. 


CHAPTER  V 
LOYALTIES 

GEOFFREY  went  to  several  rehearsals  and  always  found 
it  interesting,  but  it  began  to  appear  that  all  was  not 
going  well.  The  day  of  production  approached,  but 
the  actors  didn't  know  their  parts,  and  the  action,  to 
put  it  moderately,  was  ragged.  Men  and  ladies  in 
the  company  came  up  to  Geoffrey  occasionally  to  dis- 
cuss their  parts,  and  sometimes  they  made  a  fine  show 
of  interest  in  the  psychology  of  the  characters.  "  Psy- 
chology "  was  a  favorite  word  when  Geoffrey  was 
about,  though  he  shuddered  when  he  heard  it.  He 
was  at  a  loss  to  explain  the  deep  inwardness  of  his 
minor  characters,  but  it  seemed  that  rather  perfunc- 
tory explanations  would  do.  Everybody  was  very 
polite  to  him ;  with  the  exception  of  Miss  Drew  they 
were  all  rather  solemn,  and  he  realized  that  the  play 
was  regarded  as  a  doubtful,  if  not  a  desperate,  experi- 
ment. It  was  a  little  unconventional  in  its  naturalism 
no  doubt,  though  there  was  not  a  loose  nor  a  lewd 
word  in  it,  and  even  Miss  Drew,  who  stood  up  for  her 
fellows,  admitted  that  actors  are  the  most  conventional 
of  people.  The  head  and  front  of  the  trouble  was 
Elleray,  who  maintained  an  air  of  profound  dissatis- 
faction, emitting  at  times  slight  interjections  of  dis- 
tress. Having  given  way  he  now  played  the  role  of 

61 


62  TRUE  LOVE 

victim  with  politeness,  resignation,  and  a  subdued  an- 
guish. 

It  was  amusing,  but  it  was  not  very  comfortable. 
Upjohn  grew  portentous,  and  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  gossiping  in  corners  which  Geoffrey  sometimes 
broke  in  upon  jocosely.  He  heard  a  whisper  of  with- 
drawal, and  asked  Upjohn  what  it  meant.  Upjohn 
was  in  genuine  distress.  Withdrawal  would  be  a 
reflection  on  his  attempt  at  production,  it  would  in- 
volve all  sorts  of  uncomfortablenesses,  and,  besides, 
Upjohn  was  a  sensitive  man,  very  much  alive  to  the 
obligations  and  the  courtesies.  He  hinted  that  Elleray 
was  still  sulking  over  his  part,  and  lamenting  the  ab- 
sence of  those  sympathetic  touches  that  make  the 
whole  pit  kin.  Resisting  an  inclination  to  consign 
Elleray  to  blazes,  Geoffrey  sought  him  out  and  warmly 
congratulated  him  on  his  insight,  his  execution,  and 
his  effectiveness  generally.  "  It's  going  to  be  one  of 
the  triumphs  of  your  career,"  he  said.  He  laid  it  on 
thick,  but  not  too  thick.  Elleray  responded,  and,  fine 
actor  as  he  was,  there  was  no  difficulty  in  finding 
things  to  praise.  Yet  Geoffrey  knew  that  there  was 
a  large  infusion  of  insincerity  in  this  attitude  of  his, 
and,  illogically  enough,  he  justified  himself  by  his  bit- 
terness. His  tongue  bulged  in  his  cheek,  he  was 
seething  with  vexation  and  contempt.  He  went 
round  the  company  with  assurances  that  they  were 
doing  it  all  thundering  well  and  everybody  was 
pleased. 

And,  of  course,  he  believed  his  play  to  be  all  right. 
One  day  he  went  home  to  Mary  and  she  asked,  timidly, 


LOYALTIES  63 

how  it  was  going  on.  He  wanted- to  talk  about  it. 
"  It's  going  on  splendidly,"  he  said,  "  and  the  duffers 
think  it's  a  failure." 

"  The  duffers  ?  "  said  Mary.  "  You  don't  mean  that 
Miss  Drew " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  "  said  Geoffrey  in  alarm.  "  She's 
loyal  enough." 

"  Loyal  ?  "  said  Mary.  "  Is  it  a  question  of  loy- 
alty?" 

She  was  perturbed  at  the  idea  of  another  woman 
being  loyal  to  Geoffrey.  He  proceeded  to  explain 
certain  differences  to  be  observed  in  the  company. 
Miss  Drew  was  acting  beautifully,  and,  while  putting 
all  her  individuality  into  the  part,  was  always  ready 
to  do  what  she  was  told.  And  here,  he  explained,  you 
perceive  the  true  artist  who,  indeed,  may  be  a  slave. 
He  (or  she)  is  troubled  little  by  the  mere  tyrannies 
if  you  will  only  leave  his  (or  her)  mind  to  work  out 
its  salvation.  An  illustration  came  in  a  dim  remem- 
brance of  the  worker  in  stone  that  Ruskin  writes 
about.  There  he  is  perched  high  above  the  world 
carving  his  bits  of  detail  on  the  Gothic  cathedral. 
He  is  an  artist  of  riotous  fancy,  living  his  life  of 
ecstatic  happiness  apart  from  the  world.  When  he 
descends  to  the  earth  he  may  be  a  person  of  no  con- 
sideration, he  may  be  thrust  about,  struck,  kicked, 
treated  with  contumely.  He  smiles;  he  has  cheated 
these  fools. 

He  ran  on  in  this  strain,  leaving  Miss  Drew  behind. 
Mary  said :  "  But  in  the  world  he  becomes  subtle  and 
insincere." 


64  TRUE  LOVE 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Geoffrey,  and  then,  remembering, 
he  said,  "  She's  staunch  enough." 

Staunch  enough.  Loyal  enough.  Mary  did  not  like 
it,  and  when  she  did  not  like  a  thing  she  must  try  to 
be  just  to  it.  "  You're  lucky  to  have  Miss  Drew,"  she 
said.  "  She  seems  a  person  who  could  understand. 
Oh,  she  could  understand  things  deeply!" 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  her,  Mary,"  he  said. 

"  Like  her?  "  said  Mary,  startled.  "  Why  shouldn't 
I  like  her?" 

"  Well,  it's  a  great  thing  to  be  liked  by  you." 

She  blushed  happily.  She  would  have  left  it  at  that, 
but  the  invincible  sincerity  in  her  would  not  have  it 
so.  "  I  don't  know  her  very  well,  you  see.  I  admire 
her,  of  course,  but  as  to  liking — that  will  come,  I  dare 
say — or  would  if  I  saw  much  of  her." 

He  was  silent.  He  was  conscious  of  the  feminine 
resentments.  They  are  exploited  in  a  thousand  vul- 
garities that  catch  the  eye  in  comic  papers  or  are 
bandied  to  and  fro  by  the  facetious.  Behind  them  lies 
a  little  truth,  but  it  is  not  truth  till  all  the  womanly 
generosity  and  renunciation  are  taken  into  the  account. 
A  man  must  be  cautious  when  he  speaks  to  his  sister 
of  another  woman  for  whom  he  begins  to  care.  A 
sister  may  blurt  out  things  or  she  may  be  conspicuously 
cautious. 

They  returned  to  the  play  and  it  appeared  that, 
vital  as  was  Miss  Drew's  part,  the  body  and  bones 
of  it  must  be  upheld  by  Elleray.  Of  him  Geoffrey 
could  speak  freely  and  humorously.  He  was  another 
manifestation  of  the  artistic  temperament.  His  no- 


LOYALTIES  65 

tion  seemed  to  be  that  this  was  a  kind  of  season  ticket 
for  even  the  most  extravagant  excursions.  In  what- 
ever way  you  made  a  fool  of  yourself  you  had  only 
to  say  "  artist  "  and  the  officials  of  the  world — if  they 
knew  their  business — retired  respectfully  or  said 
"  Pass."  It  was  a  little  awkward,  certainly,  when 
artist  clashed  on  artist  in  matters  of  business.  They 
were  apt  in  that  case  to  develop  business  qualities. 

Like  most  actors,  Elleray  wanted  a  fuss  made  about 
him  and  it  was  natural  enough  that  he  should.  The 
advertiser  and  the  artist  become  inextricably  mixed, 
and  the  advertiser  wishes  to  be  regarded  with  affec- 
tion. Actors  have  a  pathetic  desire  to  be  regarded 
with  affection,  and  in  consequence  they  lose  a  little  in 
austerity.  Who  has  not  seen  a  popular  lady  before 
the  curtain  making  love  to  her  audience  en  masse? 
And  when  the  big  man  comes  to  a  town  he  is  a  good 
deal  occupied  with  thoughts  of  his  reception.  It  seems 
to  matter  more  that  there  should  be  a  roar  of  applause 
when  he  comes  on,  than  that  some  obscure  person  in 
a  back  row  should  perceive  the  fineness  of  his  art. 
And  so  Elleray,  craving  affectionate  sympathy,  didn't 
like  at  all  that  he  should  have  to  betray  ugly,  sinister 
qualities  in  his  parts.  It  was  nothing  to  him  that  they 
should  contribute  to  a  beautiful  whole,  and  in  this 
he  was  supported  by  his  customers  in  the  pit  who 
care  very  little  about  these  wholes.  A  straightforward 
villain  to  be  knocked  on  the  head  is  intelligible,  but 
how  dangerous  are  these  half-sympathies!  How  in- 
sidious is  the  art  that  would  confuse  a  moral  issue! 
Besides,  there  are  certain  unalterable  grooves  for  the 


66  TRUE  LOVE 

sympathetic  spirit;  the  emotions  have  their  channels. 
The  classical  example  is  given  by  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw, 
who  had  been  away  for  a  holiday  and  returned  to 
the  theater  to  find  his  "  Devil's  disciple  "  kissing  a 
strand  of  the  lady's  hair  surreptitiously.  The  point 
of  the  play  is  that  he  should  do  nothing  of  the  kind, 
but  Mr.  Forbes  Robertson  always  used  to  do  it  in 
Hamlet. 

Geoffrey  talked  himself  into  a  good  humor  with 
Elleray.  He  wasn't  going  to  play  the  part  quite  as 
it  should  be,  perhaps;  he  was  broader,  bolder,  more 
impudent  in  his  audacities  than  Geoffrey's  conception 
warranted.  Subtlety  of  decadence  was  hardly  in  his 
line,  nor  did  he  quite  perceive  the  fineness  of  spirit 
that  penetrates  through  failure  and  foulness  to  the 
essential  understanding ;  on  the  technical  side,  Geoffrey 
put  it,  he  didn't  drawl  enough.  But  Elleray,  like  all 
fine  actors,  was  an  instinctive  opportunist,  and  Geof- 
frey could  see  with  half  an  eye  how  he  would  make  the 
thing  go.  Indeed,  Elleray  had  begun  to  perceive  this 
himself,  and  lamentations  pointing  to  abandonment 
of  the  part  changed  insensibly  to  an  heroic  intention  to 
endure  the  burden  to  the  end. 

"I  do  hope  they'll  do  it  well,"  said  Mary.  She 
would  have  said  that  she  hoped  it  would  succeed,  but 
that  this  might  have  been  taken  to  suggest  some  doubt 
of  him;  failure,  she  would  imply,  could  only  be  from 
lapses  of  the  actors  or  stupidity  in  the  public.  And 
Geoffrey,  in  a  revulsion  of  self-confidence,  assured 
her  that  the  play  was  "  actor-proof  " ;  that  positive 
failure  was  impossible. 


LOYALTIES  67 

"  But  good  things  do  fail  ?  "  she  -said,  and  he  knew 
that  she  feared  his  disappointment. 

"  Not  if  they're  good  in  the  right  way,"  he  said, 
braving  platitude,  but  he  added :  "  Of  course,  I  don't 
mean  that  it's  going  to  be  a  howling  success.  The 
point  is  that  these  theatrical  people  don't  know  their 
trade.  They  don't  know  good  from  bad  and  they 
don't  know  success  from  failure — except  by  results.'* 

"  But  isn't  that  the  way  one  does  know  it  ?  "  she 
said,  and  "  I'm  a  bit  of  a  pro  at  this  game,  Mary,"  he 
said.  His  confidence  was  surprising. 

Still  fearing  his  disappointment,  she  insinuated  a 
doubt  of  the  repertory  theater  and  its  highly  respecta- 
ble audiences.  "  Don't  fear  failure  for  me,"  he  said ; 
"you  might  as  well  fear  success."  And  then  he 
quoted : — 

"  But,  bright  God 
O'  the  lyre  what  bully-drawlers  they  applaud.'* 

Quite  in  high  spirits  he  explained  what  Meredith 
meant  by  bully-drawlers,  and  he  professed  himself 
content  to  hang  back  in  the  race  for  a  time,  as  Mere- 
dith did,  knowing  that  he  would  come  with  a  rush 
at  the  finish.  Mary  found  him  delightfully  young. 

To  her  surprise  he  began  to  talk  about  Miss  Drew ; 
to  her  surprise  because  they  were  both  developing 
self-consciousness  in  relation  to  her.  He  praised  her 
and  insinuated  that  he  didn't  know  much  about  her. 
The  question  of  her  artistic  evolution  interested  him. 
Decidedly  he  was  young,  thought  the  experienced 


68  TRUE  LOVE 

Mary.  He  mixed  up  Miss  Drew  with  her  profession 
generally,  and  talked  vague  depreciation  of  it.  "  They 
accept  American  claptrap  as  though  it  were  Shake- 
speare," he  said,  "and  when  you  speak  to  a  woman 
about  color  she  thinks  you  mean  what  she  calls  art 
shades."  He  suggested  that  the  vagabondish  still 
hung  about  them,  that  they  were  naturally  isolated, 
homeless;  even  that  their  continual  pretenses  at  hu- 
manity left  them  inhuman.  It  was  an  airy  perform- 
ance, and  at  first  Mary  found  it  rather  pleasing.  It 
was  devised  for  her  reassurance,  but  he  was  like  a  boy 
accused  of  being  lovelorn  who  affirms  that  the  lady 
squints. 

And  Mary  began  to  despise  herself,  and  even  to 
despise  him.  What  is  the  good  of  these  stupid  con- 
cessions of  the  ultrasympathetic,  these  despicable 
agreements  with  the  last  comer?  Geoffrey  wanted  to 
convey  to  her,  no  doubt,  that  he  had  not  gone  far 
with  this  young  lady,  that  he  was  alive  to  the  need 
of  caution,  that  he  was  no  fool.  He  was  kind,  but 
it  was  not  a  noble  kindness,  it  was  not  what  she 
looked  for  in  him.  He  persisted  fatuously  and  came 
back  to  the  particular.  "Of  course  she  can  act,"  he 
concluded. 

"  She  is  an  exquisite  creature,"  Mary  flashed  out. 
"  You  know  that  she  is  beautiful." 

And  he  did  know  it.  He  looked  back  along  the 
track  he  had  come  and  despised  himself.  Mary  spoke 
again:  "You're  just  trying  to  please  me,"  she  said, 
"  and  I'm  not  as  bad  as  that." 

She  was  heated,  indignant ;  he  knew  her  mood.    And 


LOYALTIES  69 

he  was  angry  too,  though  it  was  with  himself,  and 
only  the  overflow,  the  splashes,  fell  on  her.  This  angry 
irritation  rose  up  like  a  flood  and  swept  him  away 
from  all  chance  of  full  and  generous  surrender.  It 
was  impossible  to  talk  to  Mary  quite  simply  about 
Sibyl,  and  perhaps  Mary  could  not  have  talked  simply 
to  him  when  her  generous  ardor  had  cooled.  The 
silence  that  fell  between  them  was  heavy  with  re- 
sentment, and  yet,  perhaps,  they  had  come  nearer  to 
an  understanding.  Geoffrey  took  his  pipe  and  rumi- 
nated in  the  somber  little  garden,  where  the  afternoon 
sun  shed  chinks  or  bands  of  light  between  the  houses. 
He  did  some  trifling  adjustment  to  bed  or  walk  now 
and  then,  and  presently,  seeing  Mary  near  an  open 
window,  he  called  out  some  comment  on  affairs  of  the 
garden.  She  responded  evenly,  and  both  were  re- 
lieved to  realize  that  deeper  understanding  need  not 
involve  immediate  explanation.  They  were  shy  crea- 
tures ;  it  was  their  way  to  leave  the  final  words  unsaid. 
He  had  declared  that  Sibyl  was  loyal,  but  he  had 
failed  miserably  in  loyalty  to  her.  At  least  he  had 
failed  in  the  forms  of  it,  and  Mary  had  shattered  his 
flimsy  construction.  Mary  was  a  gentle,  magnanimous, 
fiery  woman ;  a  touchstone  for  the  verities.  He  found 
in  his  heart  a  dread  that  somewhere  Sibyl  might  be 
found  wanting;  that  Mary's  sincerity  of  advocacy 
might  change  to  a  disconcerting  sincerity  of  condemna- 
tion. Then  the  real  test  of  his  loyalty  might  come  and 
he  would  not  be  found  wanting.  But  what  did  this 
imply?  A  loyalty  to  the  woman  or  to  his  infatuated 
conception  of  her?  And  here  he  was  again  disloyal, 


70  TRUE  LOVE 

he  was  ready  to  believe  ill  of  her.  Well,  the  lover  is  a 
doubter  and  a  critic;  love  may  pretend  to  blindness, 
but  it  is  never  blind.  He  was  playing  with  the  idea, 
of  course.  There  was  no  question  of  love,  surely. 
She  was  romantic,  incalculable;  very  different  from 
Milly  Warde.  This  reflection  was  prompted  by  the 
appearance  of  Miss  Warde,  who  looked  into  the  gar- 
den as  she  was  passing,  and  halted  in  a  friendly  man- 
ner when  she  saw  him.  There  was  not  much  privacy 
in  the  Arden's  front  garden,  though  they  had  a  pre- 
cious little  bit  at  the  side  where  they  were  screened 
from  passers  and  neighbors,  with  room  at  least  for  a 
tea-table.  It  was  a  good  place  when  the  sun  blazed, 
but  otherwise  too  shady  or  even  shivery;  they  had 
done  their  best  to  bring  color  into  it,  to  make  it  some- 
thing of  a  bower.  Milly  had  often  sat  there  with 
them  and  contributed  to  the  efficiency  of  the  conversa- 
tion. She  looked  very  neat  and  perhaps  a  little  tailor- 
made  now,  but  if  her  clothes  sometimes  spoke  of  the 
shop,  it  was  a  good  shop  with  little  or  no  nonsense 
about  it.  Geoffrey  had  been  disposed  to  tick  Milly  off, 
to  classify  her,  but  Mary  would  not  have  that,  and, 
indeed,  her  neatnesses  were  but  the  barriers  about  her 
womanliness.  It  was  one  of  Geoffrey's  objections,  that 
she  would  have  the  position  defined,  and,  as  she  said, 
"Why  shouldn't  I?" 

A  handsome,  friendly  face  should  never  come  amiss, 
and  Milly,  if  not  quite  Browning's  Pippa,  did  go 
about  raising  people's  spirits.  It  was  Mary  who  had 
given  Geoffrey  some  idea  of  the  fineness  of  this  in 
one  who  had  her  secret  core  of  melancholy  and  dis- 


LOYALTIES  71 

couragement.  He  and  Milly  were  on  terms  of  liking 
and  of  badinage,  and  perhaps  their  encounters  of  wits 
kept  them  from  intimacy.  He  knew  her  to  be  loyal, 
staunch;  she  had  all  that  range  of  honorable  virtues, 
but  somehow  in  her,  they  were  so  much  a  matter  of 
course  that  they  seemed  less  beautiful  than  if  they 
had  emerged  from  the  doubtful  and  obscure.  How 
unfair  that  was!  A  tithe  of  her  good  qualities  be- 
decked alluringly  would  make  a  paragon. 

Miss  Warde  looked  over  the  gate  and  said  cheer- 
fully: "  Meditating  on  some  gigantic  affair  of  State?  " 
That  was  the  sort  of  thing  she  did ;  that  was  a  charac- 
teristic opening.  Perhaps  "  Good-day  "  would  have 
been  better,  but  the  instinct  to  decorate  is  commonly 
too  strong.  He  replied  in  similar  vein  and  invited 
her  to  come  in.  "  On  the  whole,"  as  she  said,  she  de- 
cided to  do  so  because  she  had  been  wanting  to  talk  to 
Mary.  So  Geoffrey,  pursuing  the  cheerfully  facetious 
vein,  called  out :  "  Mary,  a  person  here  wants  to  talk 
to  you,"  and  Mary,  recognizing  his  tone,  knew  who 
it  was.  She  came  into  the  garden  and  was  confronted 
with  the  downright  Milly,  who  was  always  welcome. 
"  I've  been  thinking  it  over,"  said  Milly,  "  and  I've 
decided  to  train  for  a  nurse." 

It  was  sudden,  but  they  were  accustomed  to  sud- 
denness from  her.  It  appeared  that  she  was  walking 
along  the  main  road  on  her  way  to  the  fishmonger 
and  considering  whether  to  get  cod  steak,  which  her 
father  liked  but  which  they  had  had  often  lately,  or 
mackerel,  which  he  tolerated  "  as  a  change,"  when  it 
struck  her  that  she  would  positively  become  a  nurse. 


72  TRUE  LOVE 

She  ordered  mackerel,  this  being  slightly  the  more 
austere  proceeding,  and  then  turned  down  Grayling 
Street  to  think  about  Mary.  "  I  wasn't  sure  that  I 
should  come  in,"  she  said,  "  but  I  saw  Geoffrey  hard 
at  work  in  the  garden  and  I  knew  he  required  a  rest." 

"  But  how  can  you  decide  like  that  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"  It's  easier  quick  than  slow,"  said  Milly. 

Mary  frowned,  for  these  decisions  of  Milly  sug- 
gested irreverence  for  the  constituted  order  of  things. 
She  preferred  the  method  of  infinite  balancings  and 
a  sort  of  conscientious  inaction.  And  now  she  dreaded 
what  Milly  would  say  next,  for  this  was  likely  to 
involve  her.  There  was  no  escape.  "  Now,  Mary," 
said  the  downright  one,  "  it's  time  for  you  to  decide." 
Poor  Mary  was  not  ready  for  anything  of  the  kind. 
Milly's  decision  made  a  new  situation,  and  she  wanted 
to  consider  it  quietly  and  exhaustively,  and  certainly 
she  didn't  want  to  talk  of  it  now  with  Geoffrey  or 
before  him. 

"  To  decide  what  ?  "  said  Geoffrey. 

And  then  it  all  came  out.  Milly  was  explicit  and 
Mary  was  qualified.  Milly  was  the  coach  and  Mary 
the  brake.  The  question  as  it  affected  Geoffrey  was 
no  less  than  whether  Mary  should  leave  him  and  set 
off  with  Milly  to  be  a  nurse.  He  was  a  little  startled 
to  find  that  they  had  talked  about  it  and  that  Mary 
had  at  least  considered  the  possibility.  The  instinctive 
feeling  of  the  pampered  male  was  dismissed  very  soon. 
There  must  be  no  question  of  desertion  or  disloyalty ; 
Mary  was  free  to  pursue  her  vocation.  And  his  spirit 
was  touched  with  a  curious  lightness  and  freedom; 


LOYALTIES  73 

his  mind  shot  suddenly  to  Sibyl  Drew,  but  he  shrank 
from  definitions.  "  Going  to  deserf^me,  Mary  ?  "  he 
said  lightly,  kindly. 

It  was  a  considered  speech,  but  Mary  was  incapable 
of  taking  it  at  its  value.  The  form  of  words  carried 
a  meaning  that  probed  her  heart.  Was  she  disloyal? 
Was  she  thinking  of  herself?  Of  course  she  was,  for 
she  claimed  her  right  to  consideration  and  would  have 
repelled  as  indignantly  any  attempt  of  Geoffrey  to 
take  more  than  a  fair  share  of  her  life,  as  she  would 
a  suggestion  that  he  was  capable  of  it.  But  he  was 
important  in  her  eyes,  and  keeping  house  for  him  was 
consequently  important.  The  wish  to  become  a  nurse 
was  an  inextricable  mixture  of  conscience,  sympathy, 
and  adventurousness,  and  the  whole  of  these  would 
not  have  been  enough  in  themselves  to  move  hen 

Geoffrey's  question  brought  stammered  disclaimers, 
a  plea  for  the  postponement  of  explanations.  But 
the  good,  frank  Milly  would  not  let  it  rest  there  andj 
soon  made  the  crooked  plain.  •  "  You  see,  Geoffrey," 
she  said,  "  Mary  and  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
talking  about  you,  and  considering  what's  best  for 
you." 

"  Bless  your  hearts !  "  he  said. 

"  And  Mary  has  got  the  notion  that  if  she  goes  on 
much  longer  she'll  become  a  fixture." 

"But  why  shouldn't  she  be  a  fixture?"  he  said. 

"Ah!  but  think  of  all  the  unhappy  young  men 
whose  sisters  have  stuck  to  them  till  they  were  hope- 
less old  bachelors !  The  kind,  considerate  brother,  the 
ageing  sister,  and  the  marriageable  young  woman  pin- 


74  TRUE  LOVE 

ing  in  obscurity.  Mary  thinks  it's  your  destiny  to 
marry,  and  wants  you  to  have  all  the  joys  of  life.  She 
might  be  in  the  way." 

"  But,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  wouldn't  it  be  as  well  to 
wait  till  this  marriageable  young  woman  is  in  sight  ?  " 

"  That,"  said  Milly,  "  is  a  matter  of  detail." 

"  You  don't  give  the  cook  notice  till  you've  got  an- 
other one." 

"  No,  but  the  cook  gives  you  notice  if  she  thinks 
you  may  give  it  her." 

"  I  shall  give  up  analogies,"  said  Geoffrey. 

To  Mary  it  was  distressing  that  the  discussion 
should  remain  on  a  semi-facetious  level.  It  was  not 
wanting  in  essentials,  but  Geoffrey  was  almost  as 
anxious  as  she  to  defer  any  talk  that  might  tend  to 
development.  Their  association,  their  companionship 
was  yet  something  of  rare  value  and  Milly  was  a  dis- 
turbing, even  a  shattering,  friend.  She  was  partly 
conscious  of  this :  "  I  know  I'm  a  bull  in  a  china 
shop,"  she  said. 

"  The  only  live  thing  there,"  said  Geoffrey. 

Mary  proposed  that  they  should  all  go  in  and  have 
tea,  but  Milly  wished  to  be  at  home  when  the  mackerel 
arrived,  fearing  that  injudicious  storage  even  for  the 
few  hours  before  dinner  might  turn  it  into  a  legitimate 
grievance  in  this  weather;  perhaps  neither  Mary  nor 
Geoffrey  was  sorry  that  she  should  go.  Before  she 
did  so  she  broached  the  subject  of  Alice  Dean  with 
friendly,  pertinent  questions,  and  said  she  meant  to 
be  there  on  the  first  night.  Mary  looked  at  Geoffrey 
and  he  responded  amiably  by  suggesting  that  Milly 


LOYALTIES  75 

should  go  with  them.  It  was  rather  good  of  him 
for  he  wasn't  quite  sure  that  he  wanted  it.  However, 
she  accepted,  so  to  speak,  with  both  hands  and  with 
cries  of  delight.  "  I  shall  go  home  shouting  '  In  a 
Box — With  the  Author/  "  she  said,  and  it  was  hardly 
incredible.  And  yet  she  was  not  inadequate  as  Mary's 
friend.  She  was  a  good  fellow,  a  good  girl,  no  fool, 
and  she  had  her  discretions.  It  appeared  that  she  also 
hadn't  them.  "  I  hear  that  Miss  Drew's  awfully  good," 
she  said.  "  What  do  you  think  of  her,  Geoffrey  ? 
What's  she  like  ?  Been  here,  hasn't  she  ?  Nice  ?  " 

He  gave  Miss  Drew  quite  a  nice  character  and  kept 
very  cool  over  it.  She  was  at  the  back  of  Mary's  mind 
and  it  made  a  difference  in  what  she  thought  about 
the  nursing  project.  She  was  conscious  that  it  had 
become  slightly  less  desirable  than  when  Milly  had 
first  spoken  of  it  to  her,  and  this  was  unfair  to 
Geoffrey  and  to  any  one  or  every  one.  It  was  ex- 
tremely desirable  in  the  general  that  Geoffrey  should 
marry  happily,  but  it  became  difficult  in  the  particular. 
She  was  willing  in  a  deep,  indefinable  way  that  he 
should  marry  Milly,  but  perhaps  this  was  because 
she  knew  or  thought  she  knew  that  he  would  not 
marry  her.  And  if  he  did  Mary  might  not  lose  him 
entirely.  She  was  boggling  over  the  loyalties  again, 
for  it  was  in  her  mind  that  it  wasn't  fair  to  Milly 
to  think  of  her  as  just  a  jolly  mate  for  Geoffrey,  while 
she  herself  would  have  all  she  wanted  of  the  deep 
communions  or  the  chances  of  them.  But  Milly  would 
not  be  so  dangerous  as  others.  Such  thoughts  could 
hardly  be  formulated  and  they  were  almost  like  a 


76  TRUE  LOVE 

mediaeval  tempting  of  the  devil,  though  now  he  is 
wily  enough  to  confuse  the  issue  and  prepare  special 
baits  for  the  magnanimous.  It  wanted  Milly  to  de- 
fine all  these  things,  to  measure  them  or  even  to  ac- 
knowledge them.  Mary  must  be  fair  to  herself,  she 
must  not  sacrifice  herself  to  Geoffrey's  slothful  ease; 
but  neither  must  she  hamper  him  by  filling  the  place 
a  wife  should  take.  She  must  protect  him  from  the 
sirens,  but  a  really  charming  and  virtuous  siren  cannot 
fairly  be  discouraged,  even  though  she  should  threaten 
to  take  him  body  and  soul. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PERFORMANCE 

THERE  may  be  sensitive  souls  or  super-egoists  who 
dread  the  first  performances  of  their  plays,  but  Geof- 
frey was  normal  enough  to  look  forward  to  his  ordeal 
with  very  pleasant  excitement.  He  had  seen  the  dress 
rehearsal,  which  was  both  prolonged  and  sketchy,  and 
had  received  the  usual  assurance  that  raggedness  on 
the  eve  meant  smoothness  on  the  day.  But  he  was 
hardly  prepared  to  find  the  gaps  closed,  the  crooked 
made  straight  in  such  a  generally  plausible  perform- 
ance as  the  actors  achieved.  Repertory  theater  plays 
may  be  deplorably  under-rehearsed,  but  when  it  seems 
impossible  that  they  should  hold  together,  these 
professional  actors  achieve  wonders,  if  not  perfec- 
tion. 

The  Ardens  made  a  mild  little  jollity  of  it,  and, 
with  Milly  Warde,  dined  in  the  hotel  restaurant  and 
quite  in  the  public  eye,  for  there  must  have  been  half 
a  dozen  people  there  who  knew  them,  and  what  they 
were  after.  They  had  a  bottle  of  not  too  expensive 
fizzy  wine,  so  that,  if  it  wasn't  quite  what  might 
be  expected  of  the  Pineros  and  Barries  before  their 
West  End  successes,  it  was  festive  in  a  modest  way. 
Geoffrey  enjoyed  it,  with  just  a  slight  reserve  of 
irony,  Mary  was  happy  and  anxious,  and  Milly  as 

77 


78  TRUE  LOVE 

jolly  as  a  sandboy.  His  austere  labor  was  over,  in 
some  degree  its  value  was  presently  to  be  assayed,  and 
now  came  this  irrelevance  of  festivity  like  a  feast 
on  a  holy  day.  Geoffrey  maintained  his  confidence 
and  seemed  to  have  no  apprehension  of  failure,  though 
he  professed  to  be  greatly  interested  in  the  degrees 
and  kinds  of  success.  Milly  was  more  overwhelm- 
ingly confident,  though  she  knew  nothing  of  the  play, 
and  Mary  alone  represented  apprehensions  and  fore- 
bodings while  she  tried  to  subdue  them.  Two  or  three 
people  came  up  to  speak  to  them — Bonsor  vaguely 
aggressive  and  Imalian  inscrutably  polite.  They  were 
going  to  the  play  and  they  braced  Geoffrey,  for,  while 
in  his  own  small  circle  he  was  assured  of  eager  or 
sympathetic  advocacy,  he  knew  that  the  men  of  the 
world  would  be  ready  enough  to  turn  down  their 
thumbs.  Bonsor  was  capable  of  catching  the  senti- 
ment of  the  crowd,  and  Imalian,  Geoffrey  knew,  was 
a  stern  critic.  What  he  most  cared  about  was  the 
verdict  of  Secretan,  who  was  writing  the  notice 
for  the  Herald.  There  he  might  fail.  That 
delicate,  implacable  critic  could  not  be  circum- 
vented. 

A  little  circle  gathered  round  them  in  the  so-called 
garden  where  they  took  their  coffee.  The  genial 
Burke  came  up  to  tell  them  that  he  was  prepared  to 
make  terms  for  a  claque,  and  that  his  hands  were 
hard  and  ready  for  the  work.  Attar,  one  of  the  wits 
of  the  Herald,  said  something  about  the  itching  palm. 
It  appeared  that  relays  of  the  staff  might  turn  up 
at  the  theater  during  the  evening.  It  was  all  friendly, 


PERFORMANCE  79 

stimulating,  rather  frothy.  You  cannot  settle  down 
to  anything  in  the  ten  minutes  preceding  an  event. 
Imalian  remained  calm,  though  he  attempted  a  little 
courteous  agitation.  Attar  begged  him  to  reveal  what 
the  future  held  and  they  all  paused  to  look  at  the 
deep,  dark,  oracular  young  man  who  smiled  indul- 
gently. The  time  approached,  and  Burke's  friendly 
excitement  grew  a  trifle  excessive;  he  was  no  longer 
the  calm  Irishman.  He  proposed  to  carry  Geoffrey 
shoulder-high  across  the  street  to  the  theater.  "  Splen- 
did advertisement,"  he  said.  He  offered  to  fight 
Geoffrey  three  rounds  under  the  Marquis  of  Queens- 
berry's  rules,  just  to  get  the  people  together.  Bonsor 
tried  to  frown  him  down,  but  might  as  well  have  tried 
to  reason  with  a  champagne  cork.  However,  time 
was  up  and  they  all  rose  together  and  went  across 
to  the  theater  in  an  animated  little  mob. 

Behind  the  curtain  of  the  box,  Geoffrey  looked  out 
on  a  fairish  house  which  bespoke  hardly  more  than  a 
languid  interest  in  his  play.  He  did  not  escape  some 
obvious  reflections  of  a  sub-acid,  "  prophet  without 
honor  in  his  own  country"  kind.  Manchester  was 
hardly  playing  up  as  an  intellectual  center,  but,  indeed, 
the  Playgoers'  Theater  had  made  strenuous  attempts 
to  escape  the  stigma  of  intellectuality.  It  wanted  to 
be  jolly  and  first-rate.  It  had  not  succeeded  in  catch- 
ing even  the  fringe  of  the  Manchester  that  aped  the 
London  social  fashions,  but  some  nucleus  of  a  faith- 
ful, uncritical,  doggedly  self -improving  audience  had 
been  got  together.  On  occasion  it  was  reinforced  by 
other  elements,  though  to-night  it  wanted  a  considera- 


80  TRUE  LOVE 

ble  spur  to  the  imagination  to  conceive  it  as  seething 
with  the  excitement  due  to  the  birth  or  revelation  of 
a  masterpiece.  Anyhow,  they  were  excited  enough 
in  the  box,  and  if  stalls  and  pit  were  hardly  of  the 
great  world  they  might  be  taken  as  a  sort  of  stage 
crowd  contributing  to  an  effect. 

After  an  artistic  little  curtain-raiser,  which,  as  Milly 
said,  was  "neither  here  nor  there,"  the  curtain  rose 
on  Alice  Dean,  and  Geoffrey  quickened  to  attention. 
At  first  the  play  seemed  to  go  confusingly  fast,  and 
all  sorts  of  deliberate  intentions  were  slurred  over 
and  lost.  Geoffrey  made  rapid  progress  in  the  tech- 
nique of  play-writing  in  the  first  ten  minutes ;  he  per- 
ceived that  at  the  start  an  audience's  mind  is  all  astray 
and  groping  for  the  tangibilities;  that  subtlety  is 
wasted;  and,  presently,  that  when  the  mind  grips  the 
theme  it  misses  little,  though  it  may  misapprehend 
much.  Repertory  theater  actors  have  many  first  nights, 
but  they  do  not  escape  the  first  night  shakiness  and 
queer  gaps  in  the  smoothness  of  performance  revealed 
a  perturbed  humanity.  A  slip  by  Elleray  made  a  pas- 
sage utterly  unintelligible,  and  Geoffrey  groaned  and 
chafed,  but  Elleray  had  taken  hold  of  the  play  and 
began  to  feel  his  power.  Indeed,  it  was  evident  to 
Geoffrey  that  he  conceived  the  situation  as  one  to  be 
saved  by  heroic  effort.  Actors  like  to  "  pull  the  play 
out  of  the  fire,"  and  Elleray  made  efforts  which  to 
Geoffrey's  mind  were  excessive.  He  acted  brilliantly 
and  became  domineering  and  decisive  except,  indeed, 
when  he  forgot  his  part.  He  was  certainly  making 
the  play  go,  but  it  became  evident  even  to  himself 


PERFORMANCE  81 

that  stimulants  were  unnecessary.  -The  play  was  es- 
tablished, and  Elleray  began  to  act  with  more  of  re- 
finement and  ease. 

Sibyl's  early  appearances  had  none  of  the  acting 
chances  that  the  profession  loves,  but  in  the  first  act 
there  is  a  sudden  spurt  of  emotion  which  came  thrill- 
ingly.  In  the  rehearsal  she  had  sometimes  seemed  to 
make  the  part  big  and  emphatic,  but  now  it  was  quiet 
and  subdued.  She  had  eliminated  all  irrelevant  effec- 
tiveness, and,  indeed,  Geoffrey  thought  that  she  might 
have  claimed  to  be  the  loyal  interpreter  of  his  bare 
intentions.  And  yet  the  personal  element  remained 
over;  everything  she  did  or  said  was  peculiar  to  her. 
There  are  many  competent  actors  in  the  world,  but 
Geoffrey  had  got  to  the  point  at  which  competent 
acting  in  itself  is  a  bore.  Acting  may  be  the  valuable 
medium  for  the  play,  and  it  may  be,  too,  an  exhibition 
of  charm  or  personality.  Geoffrey  experienced  a  faint, 
almost  pleasurable  whiff  of  the  old  jealousy;  he 
peered  out  at  the  set  faces  in  the  house  and  wondered 
what  share  was  his  in  their  attention.  And  then  he 
looked  at  Mary  and  Milly,  and  it  seemed  that  they 
were  intent  on  Sibyl,  that  they,  at  least,  were  not 
thinking  of  the  play.  He  was  conscious  of  contend- 
ing femininities,  though  presumably  the  appreciation 
was  generous  enough.  Milly's  "  wonderful "  and 
"  superb  "  hardly  seemed  beyond  the  occasion,  though 
they  were  not  precisely  chosen.  He  was  proud  at  heart 
and  justified  in  Sibyl.  The  act  concluded  with  a  re- 
covery of  the  minor  key  after  bravura  passages.  He 
had  prided  himself  on  this,  and  she  accomplished  it 


82  TRUE  LOVE 

so  exquisitely  that  even  his  final  impression  was  of 
her.  The  play  came  second. 

The  curtain  fell  to  heartening  applause,  not  quite 
vociferous,  but  extended  beyond  the  merely  respect- 
ful. The  curtain  bounced  up  two  or  three  times  and 
the  actors  stood  there  relaxed  into  a  beaming  com- 
placency. Geoffrey  saw  Sibyl's  eyes  turn  toward 
their  box,  and  as  the  lights  in  the  auditorium  had  gone 
up  he  thought  she  might  see  his  gesture  of  applause. 
But  she  turned  away  calmly  and,  as  it  might  be,  sadly. 
He  saw  her  then  as  the  artist  immersed  in  her  work 
and  tolerating  this  vulgar  clamor  of  approval.  She 
was  not  one  of  the  smirkers  who  posture  before  an 
audience  like  grateful  shop-walkers. 

They  had  a  little  crowd  in  the  box  during  the  inter- 
val, and  there  was  quite  a  jabber  of  excited  talk. 
Geoffrey  breathed  more  deeply  and  easily,  knowing 
that  the  cognoscenti  were  on  his  side.  Imalian  said 
little,  but  when  Milly  pressed  him  for  the  explicit  he 
said:  "The  question  is  whether  he  can  keep  it  up." 
Attar  brought  word  of  something  that  Secretan  had 
said,  and  if  the  great  Secretan  had  said  that  Geoffrey 
had  not  lived  in  vain.  Opinions  differed,  it  seemed, 
about  Elleray's  performance,  but  not  about  Miss 
Drew's.  Geoffrey  overheard  Mary's  warm  praise  of 
her.  He  was  exultant  behind  a  modest  demeanor. 
When  the  men  had  cleared  away,  Mary  and  Geoffrey 
had  a  shy  word  together,  and  Milly's  heartiness  en- 
compassed them  reassuringly.  Behind  the  curtain  in 
a  theater  box  is  a  queer,  snug,  stuffy  place,  but  it  is 
possible  to  be  happy  there.  The  time  went  fast. 


PERFORMANCE  83 

"  Any  one  can  write  a  first  act,"J5ecretan  had  once 
said,  and  Geoffrey  remembered  this  at  the  beginning 
of  his  second.  He  had  some  anxious  minutes,  but  the 
play  picked  itself  up  as  he  knew  it  would,  and  pres- 
ently all  apprehensions  had  vanished.  Whatever  might 
be  the  quality  of  the  play,  it  appeared  that  he  had 
that  sense  of  the  theater  without  which  dramatic  genius 
must  dissipate  itself  in  literature.  He  was  intent  on 
the  play,  and  at  times  the  performance  was  secondary ; 
at  times  there  was  almost  a  clear  distinction  between 
the  two.  There  came  a  phase  of  exultant  egoism  dur- 
ing which  he  had  the  illusion  of  power.  The  play  was 
going  well  with  the  audience,  but  not  as  well  as  it  went 
in  his  mind,  stimulated  as  he  was  by  the  obvious  suc- 
cess. Now  and  then  he  was  touched  by  Sibyl  and 
grateful  to  her,  and  yet,  again,  he  lost  consciousness 
of  any  personal  relation.  He  enjoyed  the  applause  as 
a  schoolboy  would,  while  at  the  back  of  his  mind  there 
was  some  reservation ;  this  applause  was  a  gross  sum- 
ming-up of  dubious,  confused  impressions;  it  was 
largely  irrelevant. 

Yet  there  it  was,  and  when  the  curtain  fell  on  the 
last  act  the  clamor  had  a  fairly  hearty  note  in  it. 
Geoffrey  was  cool  enough  to  measure  his  success,  and 
he  knew  that  the  motions  of  the  audience  were  not 
all  one  way;  there  was  not  the  even  roar  of  applause 
that  comes  of  perfect  comprehension  and  intense  stim- 
ulation. In  the  box,  however,  life  was  at  high  pres- 
sure, and  it  was  Geoffrey's  joy  to  look  into  Mary's 
shining  eyes.  People  were  shouting  "Author  "  rather 
mechanically,  and  an  eager  manager  hustled  him  out 


84  TRUE  LOVE 

of  the  box.  It  appeared  that  there  was  not  a  way 
to  the  stage  on  this  side  of  the  houde,  and  Geoffrey 
was  hurried  along  the  back  of  the  circle.  It  was 
crowded,  and  his  progress  was  not  dignified.  He 
bumped  into  Burke,  whose  stentorian  voice  seemed 
to  dominate  the  applause,  and  Burke's  astonishment 
to  find  him  there  struck  Geoffrey  as  exquisitely  funny. 
After  moments  of  darkness  and  intricacy  he  emerged 
upon  the  stage,  and  it  seemed  that  he  was  passed 
from  hand  to  hand  till  he  stood  in  the  center  of  a 
line  of  actors.  Sibyl,  or  some  queer  caricature  of 
Sibyl,  was  beside  him,  and  Elleray,  on  the  other  side, 
gave  him  a  heightened  smile  of  encouragement.  The 
curtain  went  up  and  he  was  propelled  a  little  to  the 
front  of  the  others.  He  bowed  and,  unaccustomed  to 
doing  it  on  this  scale,  he  feared  that  it  had  been  too 
much  of  a  bend  and  a  duck.  The  thinning  audience 
emitted  a  few  "  Bravos  " — Geoffrey  distinctly  heard 
Burke's  note — the  clapping  was  renewed  and  the  cur- 
tain fell. 

Geoffrey  was  surrounded  by  congratulations,  and, 
again,  he  measured  them  instinctively.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded, but  he  hadn't  set  the  Thames  on  fire ;  perhaps 
the  actors  had  not  yet  adjusted  their  anticipations  of 
failure,  to  this  very  respectable  measure  of  success. 
Upjohn  made  rather  a  handsome,  formal  little  speech, 
and  Elleray  said  they  all  knew  that  Geoffrey  had  it 
in  him.  Geoffrey  did  not  quite  understand  what  this 
meant,  but  he  made  cordial  acknowledgments  to  the 
actors,  who  rapidly  dispersed  to  their  dressing-rooms. 
He  was  amused  at  Elleray's  "told  you  it  would  be 


PERFORMANCE  85 

all  right "  air,  but  he  was  far  enough  now  from  feel- 
ing any  resentment,  and  certainly  Elleray  had  done 
wonders;  he  had  made  a  sort  of  popular  success  of 
an  unpopular  part. 

With  a  gentle  "  Good-night "  and  a  little  bow,  Sibyl 
was  leaving  him,  having  stayed  to  the  last,  but  he 
couldn't  have  that.  The  strength  of  his  impulse  over- 
powered the  remnants  of  his  shyness,  and  perhaps  of 
hers,  and  he  seized  her  hands.  He  stammered  words 
of  praise  that  were  of  a  quite  uncritical  enthusiasm. 
Her  face  was  strange  and  garish,  but  he  looked  into 
her  eyes.  Her  beautiful  lineaments  seemed  height- 
ened and  florid;  the  painted  face  was  a  doll's,  but  it 
was  Sibyl's  too.  She  was  an  exquisite  creature  rudely 
daubed,  a  virgin  goddess  coarsely  baited;  to  yield  to 
this  lure  was  surely  the  way  of  life  and  honor.  He 
pressed  her  hands  with  the  ardor  of  a  lover,  but  they 
were  not  alone;  he  was  held  back  by  the  presence  of 
scene-shifters,  by  the  scruples  of  one  who  had  learnt 
to  school  impulse,  by  the  cowardly  punctilios.  If  it 
was  to  be,  it  could  not  be  now.  He  descended  to  a 
mere  geniality  and  she  became  positively  cheerful. 
They  exchanged  the  commonplaces  of  the  situation, 
and  parted  with  emphatic  friendliness. 

And  then  he  lost  his  way,  and,  stumbling  about  dim 
passages,  he  had  a  glimpse  of  her  again.  She  was 
shutting  a  door  when  she  saw  him  and  she  emerged. 
Quite  naturally  she  took  his  hand  to  guide  him  through 
dim  obstructions.  He  held  it  gently,  but  when  she 
indicated  his  safe  direction  he  bent  to  kiss  it.  And 
then  he  said :  "  A  thousand  thanks." 


86  TRUE  LOVE 

She  disengaged  herself  and  retired  with  another 
low  "  Good-night."  As  he  made  his  way  to  where 
Mary  and  Milly  awaited  him,  he  reflected,  with  mixed 
emotions,  that  his  words  had  been  an  enormous  sub- 
traction from  the  deed.  To  kiss  her  hand  was  much, 
but  he  had  given  her  to  understand  that  he  was  thank- 
ing her  for  her  very  admirable  performance.  Of 
course,  he  had  not  meant  that.  He  had  kissed  her 
tenderly,  impulsively,  and  then  the  words  were  a  sort 
of  cautious  withdrawal.  They  must  have  been  so,  and 
yet  he  did  utter  them  sincerely.  He  began  to  feel  the 
need  of  some  clear  thinking  on  her  behalf  and  his  own. 

He  found  his  friends  slightly  impatient,  and  ex- 
plained gaily  that  he  couldn't  get  away  from  the  ac- 
tors. They  went  home  royally  in  a  taxi,  and  he  re- 
peated things  that  Upjohn  and  Elleray  had  said.  "  But 
what  did  Miss  Drew  say  ?  "  asked  Milly,  and  declared 
her  to  be  perfectly  delightful.  Geoffrey  frowned 
secretly,  and  said  that  it  was  curious  to  see  her  face 
all  plastered  with  paint.  He  propounded  the  theory 
— theatrically  heterodox — that  make-up  should  be 
abandoned  or  only  symbolical  vestiges  of  it  retained. 
Rather  boldly — for  he  was  conscious  of  Mary — he 
said  that  it  was  a  shame  to  overlay  such  an  exquisite 
medium  as  Miss  Drew's  face.  It  was  bold,  and  yet  he 
was  conscious  of  the  attempt  to  lead  Mary  astray. 
It  was  instinctive,  protective,  and,  he  felt,  despicable. 
He  couldn't  make  up  his  mind,  and  so  he  was  in- 
duced to  these  ridiculous  subterfuges. 

Instead  of  discussing  the  performance,  as  natural 
inclination  should  have  made  him,  Geoffrey  began  to 


PERFORMANCE  87 

talk  about  technical  points  which  could  very  well  have 
waited.  He  even  imported  some  of  his  excitement 
into  the  question,  whether  at  the  theater  people  should 
use  opera  glasses,  and  he  condemned  the  practice. 
"  But,"  said  Milly,  "  how  are  we  to  see  what  that 
exquisite  medium  is  doing,  without  ?  "  He  said  that 
you  could  always  go  to  the  front  row  of  the  stalls 
if  you  wanted  to — "  We  couldn't  all,"  interjected 
Milly — but  it  appeared  that  he  strongly  condemned 
the  front  row  too.  "  Well,  then,"  said  Milly,  in  the 
tone  you  use  to  a  wayward  child,  and  he  then  ex- 
plained that  facial  expression  on  the  stage  did  not 
matter;  that  it  could  only  tell  by  being  exaggerated 
out  of  nature,  and  that  it  was  the  figure,  the  pose, 
the  gesture  that  did  matter. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Milly,  "  Miss  Drew's  face 
doesn't  matter." 

"  Not  to  you,  perhaps,"  he  said,  "  but  it  does  to  me." 

"  Then,"  persisted  she,  "  when  you  talked  about  an 
exquisite  medium  you  didn't  mean  for  acting." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  said  brazenly.  But  he  had  the 
happy  inspiration  to  put  things  right,  or  nearly  so, 
with  a  laugh. 

Their  talk  in  the  taxi  had  a  false  air  of  the  con- 
fidential, and  when  they  got  home  they  didn't  go  very 
deep  into  things.  Milly  came  in  to  supper,  of  course, 
and  various  men  dropped  in  and  were  induced  to  eat 
and  drink  unceremoniously.  It  was  all  very  jolly,  and 
they  kept  it  up  late;  so  late  that  Round  called  in, 
seeing  the  lights,  and  reported  that  he  had  failed 
to  induce  Secretan  to  come  with  him — "  Though,"  he 


88  TRUE  LOVE 

added,  "  he's  all  right.  Don't  fear."  The  great  Round, 
illustrious  journalist,  brilliant  scholar,  genial  wit,  set- 
tled down  to  cold  pie  and  claret  in  the  small  hours, 
with  a  superb  air  of  banqueting.  He  wouldn't  let 
Milly  go  or  Mary  talk  of  bedtime,  and,  whether  he 
said  incisive  things  about  the  Greek  drama,  which 
made  Geoffrey  feel  small,  or  things  of  mere  merriment 
and  gusto,  he  was  a  critic  and  a  leader  of  men.  There 
was  a  half-jocular  discussion  about  Geoffrey's  future, 
and  whether  he  should  "  chuck  "  the  Herald  and  make 
thousands  a  year  by  his  plays ;  but  "  Why  the  future  ? 
Why  the  future  ?  "  cried  Round.  "  Take  the  present 
with  both  hands.  To-morrow  we  die.  It's  glorious 
now.  What  more  do  you  want  ?  " 

There  was  genuine  impatience  in  his  voice,  and 
Geoffrey  could  believe  that  he  spoke  the  words  of 
wisdom.  This  play  of  his  did  give  them  a  jolly  occa- 
sion, but  as  a  draft  upon  the  future,  what  chance  had 
it  of  being  honored?  He  was  not  the  prey  of  illu- 
sions. And  yet,  with  something  between  wistfulness 
and  resentment,  he  could  have  wished  that  Round 
might  have  a  living  interest  in  his  affairs.  Round 
played  a  genial  part  in  the  chorus  of  adulation,  and 
yet  it  was  unlikely  that  he  would  ever  go  to  the  play. 
He  would  neither  avoid  it  nor  seek  it;  he  was  gen- 
erous and  indifferent;  he  had  big  things  of  his  own 
to  think  about  and  was  ready  to  agree  courteously 
that  the  affairs  of  others  might  be  big  too!  Mary 
was  puzzled  by  him,  but  his  benevolence  was  over- 
whelming, and  it  enveloped  Geoffrey  if  it  was  not 
concentrated  on  him.  She  was  in  uncommonly  high 


PERFORMANCE  89 

spirits  and  kindled  charmingly.  Geoffrey  felt  that  the 
barriers  between  them  were  down,  triat  misunderstand- 
ings and  reticence  were  overcome.  And  yet,  when  the 
others  were  gone,  though  they  were  gentle  and  kind 
to  one  another,  they  were  shy. 

With  the  morning  came  the  papers,  and  particularly 
Secretan's  notice.  It  seemed  to  temper  the  critic's 
austerity  with  the  comrade's  warmth,  and  Geoffrey 
found  it  almost  startling ;  he  felt  like  one  who  had  been 
assigned  a  post  of  grave  responsibility.  Mary  knitted 
her  brows  over  the  qualifications  in  the  article,  but 
on  the  whole  she  decided  to  approve.  "  You  see,"  said 
Geoffrey,  "  he  takes  me  seriously,  and  that's  all  that's 
wanted.  One  only  asks  that."  To  Mary  it  seemed 
that  this  was  hardly  enough,  but  she  acquiesced.  After 
all,  it  was  something  of  a  relief,  for  it  would  have 
been  awful  if  Mr.  Secretan  hadn't  liked  Geoffrey's 
play.  And  her  scrupulousness  was  placated.  "  He 
must  mean  what  he  says,  because  he  doesn't  just 
praise  you."  She  did  not  like  these  qualifications,  and 
yet  if  Secretan's  notice  had  been  a  conscientious  con- 
demnation, she  would  have  honored  him  for  it. 

For  the  next  few  days  Geoffrey  felt  as  though  he 
were  living  in  a  shop  window.  He  was  uneasily  ex- 
pectant that  people  would  speak  to  him  about  Alice 
Dean,  and  some  did,  but  surprisingly  many  either 
knew  nothing  about  it,  or  avoided  the  subject  because 
they  had  no  intention  of  going  to  the  play.  He  re- 
alized that  the  production  of  Alice  Dean  was  not  half 
such  a  big  event  as  he  had  felt  it  to  be,  and  he  was 
slightly  disconcerted  to  find  that  his  importance  in 


90  TRUE  LOVE 

the  scheme  of  things  was  not  materially  increased. 
Fortunately,  he  could  laugh  at  this,  though  Mary 
could  imitate  him  only  with  difficulty,  and  her  gen- 
tleness was  vexed  by  the  coolness  of  acquaintances. 
These  commonly  conceived  the  theater  in  terms  of 
Sir  George  Alexander  and  the  West  End,  and  it  was 
notorious  that  trousers  imperfectly  creased  had  been 
seen  at  the  Playgoers'  Theater.  Admittedly  this  was 
a  failure  in  technique  and  could  not  be  mitigated  by 
mere  strenuousness  after  the  ideal.  However,  people 
went  to  see  Alice  Dean,  and  it  had  a  certain  vogue; 
as  a  local  attempt  it  was  not  so  bad,  though  it  was 
understood  that  these  Herald  people  take  themselves 
too  seriously,  and  constitute  a  sort  of  mutual  admira- 
tion society.  Besides,  such  plays  as  Alice  Dean,  clever 
as  they  are,  miss  the  broad,  human  touch ;  "  a  man 
who  would  dissect  his  mother,"  was  the  verdict  of  one 
sentimentalist. 

Authors  have  a  way  of  sneaking  in  to  see  how 
their  plays  are  getting  on,  and  Geoffrey  saw  his,  or 
parts  of  it,  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  week. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  underlining,  and  Geoffrey 
made  some  effort  to  curb  the  exuberance  of  his  actors. 
It  could  only  be  done  by  definite  excisions,  and  he 
had  the  satisfaction  to  eliminate  the  biggest  laugh  the 
play  afforded.  This  came  from  what  seemed  to  him 
an  innocent  line,  but  the  audience  strained  it  to  the 
point  of  lewdness.  Geoffrey  felt  that  he  was  in  danger 
of  becoming  scornful  of  his  audience.  His  problem, 
he  knew,  was  to  keep  touch  with  the  vulgar  humor 
and  yet  be  as  fine  as  God  and  the  theater  would  let 


PERFORMANCE  91 

him  be.    To  accept  the  conventions  and  to  put  your 
life  into  them  is  the  formula. 

So  Alice  Dean  ran  its  week  and  disappeared.  Even 
while  it  was  on,  Sibyl  Drew  was  rehearsing  a  fresh 
part  and  conning  another.  Elleray  confided  to  Geof- 
frey that  if  he  could  play  the  part  in  London  the 
future  was  theirs.  And,  remembering  what  Elleray 
used  to  think  of  the  part,  Geoffrey  felt  that  he  had 
accomplished  something. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  TWO  WORLDS 

GEOFFREY  soon  discovered  that  Alice  Dean  had  not 
advanced  him  far  in  what  some  of  his  friends  would 
call  his  practical  career.  It  had  not  made  a  profound 
impression  on  the  general  consciousness,  but  when 
people  met  him  they  inquired  encouragingly  whether 
he  had  got  "  anything  on  the  stocks  ?  "  It  was  not  a 
very  difficult  question  to  parry,  and  he  found  himself 
extremely  unwilling  to  discuss  his  work  with  genial 
people  who  had  no  interest  in  it.  He  was  ready  to 
talk  to  Imalian  and  one  or  two  more  about  it,  but 
even  with  them  he  was  shy  until  the  subject  was  fairly 
launched.  He  was  secretly  curious  to  know  more  of 
what  Mary  thought.  Among  their  friends  it  seemed 
to  be  taken  that  he  had  had  a  success.  "  You  will  go 
far,"  said  one  well-meaning  acquaintance,  and  then — 
"  anything  on  the  stocks  ?  "  They  will  not  let  you 
rest.  Everything  that  is  done  is  thrust  hastily  behind 
and  you  are  incited  to  fresh  efforts.  Geoffrey's  novel 
was  almost  forgotten;  his  play — well,  a  rocket  has 
very  much  the  same  life  as  a  squib.  Hot  and  hot 
come  the  books  from  the  press,  but  old  Victorians 
continue  to  occupy  the  niches  in  the  classical 
temple. 

Geoffrey   felt   his   strength   or   some   illusion   of 
92 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  93 

strength,  and  yet  to  strive  with  the^rnighty  is  to  fail ; 
to  be  humble  is  to  court  failure.  When  he  talked  to 
Mary  he  could  see  his  work  as  a  spiritual  experience ; 
but  he  went  out  into  the  world  and  found  himself  in 
a  jostling,  striving  throng.  He  sat  at  his  desk  pursu- 
ing the  idea  faithfully,  and  then  he  mixed  in  the 
chatter  about  publishers  and  managers.  He  was  in 
love  with  austerity,  but  he  had  his  light  o'  loves  too. 
Every  man  has  his  crude  ambitions,  and  Geoffrey,  too, 
wanted  to  ride  on  the  top  of  the  wave.  He  had  en- 
joyed the  agitations  of  the  play-producing,  and  he 
could  have  said  to  himself,  "  Here,  at  last,  is  life." 
Life  is  the  fresh  experience.  But  life,  he  knew,  was 
in  the  hours  of  patient  effort;  so  patient  and  so 
arduous  that  it  seemed  a  vanity  to  wish  to  be  other 
than  he  was,  to  strive  to  penetrate  to  what  was  remote 
from  his  natural  mood.  Yet  sometimes  this  effort  left 
on  his  work  the  mark  of  the  over-laborious;  some- 
times, he  hoped,  he  could  even  believe,  that  the  mo- 
ment of  inspiration,  the  fullness  of  life  came  through 
endeavor. 

He  turned  to  the  routine  of  his  work  on  the  Herald, 
feeling  that  he  could  perform  it  well  and  cheerfully 
while  the  possibilities  of  this  deeper  experience  lay  be- 
fore him.  He  enjoyed  friendly  wrangles  with  Burke, 
who  assured  him  that  the  arts  were  good  if  you 
kept  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  but  that  he  was  far 
more  likely  to  find  himself  in  a  backwater;  and  with 
Attar,  who  gave  a  more  polished  version  of  the  case 
for  opportunism.  Attar  looked  upon  these  repertory 
theaters  and  limited  editions  with  kindly  indulgence, 


94  TRUE  LOVE 

and  if  you  talked  of  pioneers  he  would  ask  whether 
you  would  choose  to  be  Marlowe  or  Shakespeare, 
John  the  Baptist  or  Christ.  The  cool  Attar  even 
championed  the  side  of  heart  versus  brain,  he  exalted 
emotion  over  thought,  the  notion  being  that  the  crank 
is  always  the  victim  of  his  idea,  while  feeling  will 
keep  you  in  the  center  of  things;  cranks  notorious 
for  excess  of  feeling  were  dismissed  as  impos- 
tors. 

And  life — Geoffrey  was  still  young  enough  to  think 
about  "  life,"  or  at  least  to  talk  about  it — life,  he  was 
ready  to  maintain,  is  what  you  feel  and  think,  not 
what  you  do.  The  philosopher  might  press  you  for 
distinctions,  and  the  truth  was  that  Geoffrey  was  in 
love  with  art.  "  We  are  civilized  beings,"  he  would 
say,  and  there  is  no  need  for  us  to  seek  for  experi- 
ences in  the  center  of  Africa  or  at  the  North  Pole; 
others  can  do  this  for  us  and  give  us  the  idea  of  it." 
Perhaps  there  was  some  bitterness  in  this;  he  knew 
that  he  was  missing  something;  the  renunciation  had 
more  than  a  touch  of  the  supercilious.  A  young  man 
should  fall  in  love  with  his  thews  and  his  nerves. 
You  can  have  athletics,  of  course,  you  can  stand  up 
to  fast  bowling,  you  can  go  rock-climbing,  you  can 
swim  in  the  sea;  or  you  may  dismiss  these  as  trifles 
and  conceive  yourself  as  a  disembodied  spirit. 

His  play  had  brought  him  something  of  the  exalta- 
tion of  accomplishment  and  this  persisted  fitfully.  He 
thought  that  every  one  should  be  an  artist,  that  the 
best  of  life  is  to  play  at  life;  politics,  he  would  say, 
are  a  mere  policing  to  that  end.  Meeting  Brecher  one 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  95 

day  in  the  corridor  at  the  office,  he^fell  into  a  half- 
earnest,  half-ironical  discussion  with  him.  Brecher, 
a  Jew  intent  on  Zionism,  spared  for  the  world  of 
Gentiles  an  efficient  and  generally  contemptuous  serv- 
ice. Attar  had  described  him  as  a  machine  invented 
to  save  humanity,  and  certainly  his  services  were  per- 
formed with  a  minimum  of  the  sentiments.  He 
scorned  the  dilettante,  and  perhaps  made  no  clear  dis- 
tinction between  that  and  the  artist.  He  had  his  re- 
serves; his  pride  of  race,  his  pride  of  exclusiveness ; 
he  had  once  told  Geoffrey  that  never,  in  any  circum- 
stances, could  he  marry  outside  his  race,  and  a  chill 
mist  seemed  to  rise  between  them.  Geoffrey  had  it  in 
his  mind  to  say :  "  You  can  have  no  friend  but  a 
Jew?"  but  he  hesitated  as  at  something  irrevocable; 
he  did  not  like  to  think  that  with  Brecher,  friendship 
was  impossible,  that  he  must  stop  short  at  admiration. 
He  had  put  it  to  him  that  love  bloweth  where  it  listeth, 
that  passion  will  have  its  way,  and  that  some  fair 
young  Englishwoman  might  capture  the  Jew's  heart. 
Brecher  had  stared  at  him  incredulously.  And,  in- 
deed, Geoffrey  presently  put  it  to  himself  whether,  in 
any  circumstances,  he  himself  would  be  likely  to  marry 
a  foreign  woman.  It  was  only  a  formal  liberalism  that 
could  make  it  seem  possible. 

And  now  he  tried  to  explain  something  of  his  new- 
found consciousness  of  art  to  Brecher,  who  listened  to 
him  but  stonily.  Brecher  was  a  politician,  immersed 
in  the  struggle,  and  it  seemed  impertinent  to  ask  him 
to  see  both  sides  beautifully  when  one  of  them  was 
wrong.  That  your  love  of  humanity  should  make 


96  TRUE  LOVE 

you  accept  a  brutishly  stupid  humanity,  and  write 
pretty  tales  or  draw  pretty  pictures  of  it  while  great 
work  was  to  be  done,  seemed  frivolous  to  Brecher. 
He  might  agree  that  these  frivolities  are  inevitable  and 
that  if  they  are  done  they  should  be  well  done.  And 
Brecher  could  crack  a  joke  with  anybody;  he  was  a 
rather  jovial  person  when  he  unbent  from  his  austere 
labors,  but  he  really  must  part  company  if  you  wanted 
him  to  regard  joking — or  anything  of  the  sort — as  a 
man's  work.  Geoffrey  tried  to  give  him  his  conception 
of  the  "  open  door  "of  art — Brecher  became  suddenly 
solemn  at  the  phrase  familiar  in  current  economics — 
and  Brecher  agreed  that  open  doors  were  good,  that 
if  art  had  a  common  language  which  made  people 
understand  one  another  and  live  in  peace,  it  was  very 
much  to  the  good,  but  you  must  not  mistake  a  means 
for  an  end.  And  then  Geoffrey  asked  him  what  the 
end  was;  what  was  to  be  done  when  the  world  was 
straightened  up  and  the  Jews  were  flourishing  in 
Palestine;  might  they  take  to  art  then?  Brecher's 
far-away  look,  as  of  one  intent  on  something  at  the 
horizon  made  Geoffrey  feel  frivolous  indeed.  "  That 
is  for  those  who  follow,"  said  Brecher.  Geoffrey 
hinted  at  compromise — should  not  your  life  have  all 
the  elements — adventure,  service,  art?  Brecher  had 
lost  interest  in  the  discussion. 

Geoffrey  went  away  feeling  rather  uncomfortable, 
like  that  young  man  with  great  possessions,  for  he 
felt  himself  to  be  up  against  something  too  explicit 
and  austere  for  him.  He  had  a  natural  turn  for  com- 
fort, and  Brecher  was  one  of  those  who  could  work 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  97 

in  a  cold  room.  Yet  Geoffrey  was  not  a  man  to 
acquiesce  in  moral  inferiority;  always  he  had  re- 
sponded to  ideals  of  devotion.  You  may  devote  your- 
self to  art,  but  this  art  of  the  theater  is  queerly  con- 
founded with  the  florid  successes  and  mere  jollities. 
Perhaps  in  his  self-communings  he  did  himself  less 
than  justice,  but  he  had  his  secret  grim  little  satis- 
factions when  publishers  wrote  to  him  about  his  novels 
in  the  vein  of  polite,  respectful,  cautious  remonstrance. 
He  was  on  the  border  line.  They  couldn't  make  out 
whether,  in  rebuffing  him,  they  ran  the  chance  of 
missing  something,  and  yet  they  feared  to  commit 
themselves  to  him.  An  innocent  attempt  at  the  per- 
sonal relation — to  find  the  man  behind  the  firm — had 
been  received  f  reezingly,  and  yet,  it  seemed,  there  was 
anxiety  not  to  sever  relations;  your  publisher  is 
haunted  by  the  idea  that  he  may  turn  away  a  disguised 
angel  from  his  door.  An  agent  to  whom  he  had  sent 
Alice  Dean  assured  him  that  he  was  one  of  the  first 
dramatists  of  his  time,  and  that  all  he  needed  was  a 
collaborator  of  less  lofty  aims;  there  was  even  an 
offer  to  provide  one.  It  was  a  delightful  letter  for 
one  with  a  fund  of  hidden  egoism  to  receive,  but  it 
was  stupid,  or  seemed  so,  for  Geoffrey  always  made 
a  clear  distinction  between  his  novels  and  his  plays; 
the  novels  were  for  a  patient,  intimate  minority,  the 
plays  for  any  one  awake.  And,  indeed,  to  the  novelist 
play-writing  may  look  an  easy  road  to  fame  and  for- 
tune. "  I'll  grant  you,"  said  the  shrewd  Attar,  smok- 
ing a  friendly  pipe  in  Geoffrey's  room  one  afternoon, 
"that  the  play-writers  are  mostly  duffers,  but  they 


98  TRUE  LOVE 

know  the  game."  "  And  why  shouldn't  a  genius  like 
me  learn  it  ?  "  said  Geoffrey.  "  Because  it's  a  duffer's 
game,"  said  the  cynic.  "  You've  got  to  unlearn  being 
an  austere  genius." 

"  But  what  about " 

"  Damn  Shakespeare.    Shakespeare's  barred." 

Geoffrey  had  the  dream  that  he  might  accomplish 
the  miracle  of  reconciliation.  Surely,  he  thought,  it 
is  possible  to  found  all  the  beauties — or  a  sufficiency 
of  them — on  a  popular  appeal,  to  make  a  work  of  fine 
intention  go  with  a  roar.  "  Take  a  house,"  he  said, 
"  the  most  beautiful  and  original  house  is  the  best  to 
live  in.  And  it  remains  so  when  you've  decorated  it 
beautifully." 

Attar  groaned.  "  Analogies  are  barred,"  he  said. 
"And  you  know  that  most  people  like  their  houses 
and  everything  in  them  hideous." 

"  Every  art,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  has  its  conventional 
limitations  and  thrives  on  them.  The  sonnet  must 
have  fourteen  lines.  The  play  must  have  elements 
that  please  a  mob." 

"  You  think  of  a  mob  as  you  write  your  lines  ?  " 

"  Let's  call  'em  simple  human  beings.  But  you 
don't  exactly  think  of  them.  They're  there." 

"  You're  an  intricate,  aloof  sort  of  devil,"  said 
Attar.  "  But  cheapen  yourself.  I  dare  say  it's  what 
you  want." 

"  There's  an  immense  common  basis,"  cried  Geof- 
frey. "  Big  things  might  unite  us  all.  A  war.  Some 
mighty  peril.  One  is  aloof  I  dare  say.  Every  one 
should  be.  You  must  have  a  self  to  go  home  to." 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  99 

"And  then  you  dole  bits  of  it  outjn  books?"  said 
Attar. 

"  And  why  not?    There's  lots  left." 

"  Yes,"  said  Attar.  "  That  war  would  be  very  in- 
teresting. I  wonder  what  we  should  all  do.  What 
would  the  poor  old  Herald  do  ?  " 

"  You  think  it  impossible?" 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  There  was  the  Boer  War." 

"  That  was  a  trifle.  A  pretty  big  trifle,  of  course, 
but  it  was  possible  to  oppose  it  and  keep  on  opposing. 
My  God!  Arden,  think  of  a  big  European  war,  with 
England  struggling  for  existence  and  the  Herald  nag- 
ging!" 

"  That's  a  horrible  way  of  putting  it." 

"  Can't  you  see  it  that  way  ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Attar !  I  don't  run  the  political  side 
of  this  paper  so  I  can  speak  handsomely  about  it. 
Suppose  we  did  blunder  into  a  big  war,  I'd  back  the 
old  Herald  against  the  field  for  loyalty  and  compe- 
tence and  common  sense;  and  ideals  thrown  in,  of 
course." 

"  Loyalty ;  yes,"  said  Attar,  "  but  what  form  would 
it  take?" 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  fore- 
head. It  was  a  symbolical  gesture,  for,  certainly,  he 
was  not  sweating.  "  Give  peace  in  our  time,  O 
Lord!  "he  said. 

"  And  yet,"  cried  Geoffrey,  upon  an  impulse  that 
mastered  him,  "  are  we  never  to  be  tried  ?  Are  we 
never  to  grunt  and  sweat?  Are  we  never  to  descend 


100  TRUE  LOVE 

into  hell?  I'm  peaceful  enough,  of  course,  but  here 
I  am  planning  out  my  life  without  a  kink  in  it.  Never 
so  much  cold  as  over  shoes  in  snow,  as  old  Shake- 
speare said.  Have  you  read  Conrad's  Youth?  Is  it 
good  enough  to  grow  up  safely  in  a  newspaper  office  ? 
Oughtn't  we  to  be  out  enduring  and  failing,  in  agony 
and  bloody  sweat?  Oh,  of  course,  I  know  there's  a 
fine,  quiet  austere  life  to  be  lived  here,  and  you  can 
polish  your  style  and  get  rhythm  into  your  prose 
and  all  that.  And  you  can  give  a  hand  to  remedial 
legislation.  Remedial  legislation!  Eh?  We're  miss- 
ing something." 

Attar  said :  "  Do  you  want  us  to  get  up  a  European 
war  for  you?" 

"  I'm  irresponsible,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I'm  not  a 
publicist,  and  so  I  can  have  a  private  life  without 
treachery.  I  can  backslide  with  impunity." 

"  You're  a  Prussian  militarist  in  private  ?  " 

"  No.  I  want  it  an  adventure.  They  want  to  plan 
it  all  as  a  certainty.  So  folks  say.  I  know  nothing 
about  it.  I  don't  know  if  they  exist." 

"Well,"  said  Attar,  "we  may  find  out  that  they 
do  exist." 

"  Do  they?  "  said  Geoffrey. 

"  I'm  a  skeptic  too,"  said  Attar.  "  You  can  make 
out  a  case  for  certain  war.  I  can't  believe  in  it.  I 
may  be  a  fool." 

"  Deuced  uncomfortable,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I  hate 
it  all." 

"  War's  obsolete,"  said  Attar,  "  and  yet — what  are 
we  to  do?  The  boldest,  bravest  thing  is  to  take  risks 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  101 

for  peace.  To  act  as  though  you  Didn't  believe  in 
war " 

"And  where  are  you  if  it  comes?" 

"  I  don't  mean  that  we  are  to  disband  our  navy. 
But  the  courageous  thing  is  not  to  raise  a  million 
men.  If  the  Germans  are  thinking  of  war  it  would 
start  it." 

"  Then  it's  the  cautious  thing." 

"  Well,  the  wise  thing.  It's  always  brave  to  be 
wise." 

"  Don't  you  mean  it's  always  wise  to  be  brave  ?  " 
said  Geoffrey. 

Attar  didn't  find  this  worth  replying  to,  but  he 
began  again  after  a  pause.  "  You  may  reason  about 
the  future  or  you  may  feel,  which  is  a  sort  of  sub- 
conscious reasoning.  I  mistrust  both,  and  the  future 
rises  up  like  a  wall  against  me.  Every  shape  is  in  the 
block  of  marble.  Menaces  are  solid  and  terrific  things, 
and  they  are  lighter  than  smoke.  Perhaps  we  ought 
to  muster  and  drill  as  old  Roberts  says.  He  believes 
it ;  it's  a  certainty  for  him,  and  to  be  certain  is  to  be 
happy." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  that's  how  it  strikes  me." 

"  A  gallant  old  man  preaching  to  deaf  ears  while 
his  country  rushes  to  destruction." 

"  Yes,"  said  Attar.  "  The  fanatics  are  often  right. 
It's  rather  jolly  to  be  right." 

"  You  mean  to  say  he  would  like  us  to  be  de- 
stroyed ?  " 

"  No.     Oh,  no !     But  there's  some  mitigation  in 


102  TRUE  LOVE 

being  right.  I  can  never  be  right  because  I'm  in- 
veterately  skeptical.  One  conforms  sometimes  and 
shouts  with  the  rest." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Geoffrey ;  "  if  Germany  got  go- 
ing with  France  and  Russia,  should  we  come  in  ?  " 

"  Are  you  asking  me — or  a  leader-writer  on  the 
Herald?" 

"  It's  the  same  thing." 

"  Thank  you,  Arden.  Yes,  I  think  I'm  loyal.  I'm 
even  correct.  But  sometimes  when  you  can't  see 
things,  you  can  see  a  cherub  who  sees  them.  And  a 
cherub  isn't  evidence." 

"Well?" 

"  There's  a  mad  devil  in  the  sanest  of  us.  There's 
a  point  at  which  you  must  join  in  a  row." 

"  And  we  couldn't  see  France  bleed  to  death." 

"  Arden,"  said  Attar,  "  there's  something  in  your 
idea  of  the  adventure.  And  think  of  us  here.  Even 
here.  Think  of  Round  writing  on  the  great  Euro- 
pean War.  And  Brecher,  the  clear  head  in  a  muddle 
of  finance,  proving  everybody  bloody  fools.  And 
Secretan!  Secretan  with  a  theme  like  that!  You'd 
see  what  a  live  thing  style  is.  In  justice  to  our  col- 
leagues we  ought  to  foment  a  quarrel." 

"And  Lindsay?" 

"  Lindsay  is  us  all,  and  we  are  all  Lindsay." 

"  And  where  would  remedial  legislation  be  ?  Who 
would  look  after  the  virtuous  poor  in  Ancoats  ?  " 

"  I  don't  laugh,  Arden,  I  can't  see  the  joke." 

"  It  would  be  tragedy  for  Lindsay." 

"  He  can  support  tragedy." 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  103 

"  Yes,  but  what  did  you  say  about  a  big  war  and 
the  Herald  nagging  ?  " 

"  That  was  unworthy.  It  was  as  a  flicker  of  night- 
mare. We're  bigger  than  that." 

"  But  we've  a  faith  to  keep  with  these  Ancoats 
people." 

"  Yes,  it'll  have  to  be  a  damned  good  war  for  us 
to  back  it." 

They  parted  with  a  nod,  and  Geoffrey  found  himself 
thinking  about  practical  problems  that  might  arise. 
His  thoughts  shaped  themselves  into  attitudes  of  de- 
fense. If  war  came  there  would  be  a  howl  of  execra- 
tion against  the  Herald  and  their  policy,  which  was 
so  much  bolder  than  it  looked.  The  alternative  was 
the  feverish  equipment  of  a  few  hundred  thousand 
men,  which  would  not  necessarily  be  accompanied  by 
any  clear  thinking  on  foreign  policy.  And,  of  course, 
you  cannot  be  safe.  Safety  is  not  one  of  the  condi- 
tions of  live  men  or  nations.  The  alarmists  may  be 
right,  and,  indeed,  unless  the  age  of  peace  has  come 
they  must  be  right  some  day.  There  was  a  time  when 
war  with  France  was  proclaimed  to  be  inevitable ;  then 
it  was  Russia;  now  Germany.  The  point  is  that  we 
must  be  ready,  but  not  too  ready.  And  you  can  get 
into  a  frame  of  mind  in  which  all  our  vast  prepara- 
tions are  as  nothing;  it  is  only  the  additional  Dread- 
nought or  the  fifty  thousand  men  in  dispute  that  count. 

War?  What  is  war?  Can  humanity  stand  it  on  a 
great  scale?  Wouldn't  the  monstrous  absurdity  of  it 
force  a  hurried  peace?  We  talk  glibly  of  war,  and 
here  and  there  on  the  map  the  nations  have  slaughtered 


104-  TRUE  LOVE 

and  haven't  known  how  to  leave  off  slaughtering. 
Geoffrey  hadn't  thought  out  his  principles,  and  he  had 
a  vague  belief  that  they  had  something  to  do  with 
Tolstoy  and  Christ.  An  infusion  of  these,  at  least, 
but  Mary  had  once  said  "  An  infusion  ?  You  are 
always  for  an  infusion.  Take  it  pure.  Take  it  alto- 
gether." But  he  had  a  hard  residuum  of  common 
sense  and  Mary  hadn't;  she  could  exist  on  the  spirit 
alone.  He  would  take  the  middle  way,  hating  middle 
ways  and  declaring  that  extremes  were  best.  He  was 
uneasy  when  he  thought  of  Mary  and  himself  with 
war  for  a  third.  And  still  in  his  enthusiasm  for  art 
he  was  ready  to  think  of  that  as  a  solvent,  an  infallible 
touchstone.  He  was  ready  to  grapple  with  the  great- 
est conceivable  tragedy. 

It  chanced  that  he  passed  the  Playgoers'  Theater, 
a  commonplace  enough  structure  but  with  associations, 
speaking  to  him  already  of  memories.  It  had  a  dis- 
used, irrelevant  look  in  the  daylight,  and  even  at  night 
its  brilliances  were  rather  dingy.  He  stood  looking  at 
it,  as  Rachel,  in  Matthew  Arnold's  sonnet,  looked  at 
the  grandiose  fa9ade  of  the  temple  of  her  spirit.  Was 
this  his  life?  This  sort  of  thing?  The  difference  be- 
tween him  and  Rachel  was  considerable ;  between  the 
historic  French  theater  and  this  provincial  temple  of 
the  mediocrities,  inconsiderable.  He  could  idealize  it 
but  was  it  good  enough  on  any  terms  ?  This  talk  with 
Attar  had  been  disturbing.  Alice  Dean  seemed 
shrunken  and  far  away,  and  represented  something 
cold  and  dim  in  experience.  It  had  been  evolved  very 
much  from  his  own  consciousness,  though  a  waitress 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  105 

in  a  tea-shop  had  served  for  a  "model;  she  had  dis- 
turbed the  impression  whenever  she  spoke.  He  had 
poured  into  her  what  he  knew  of  women — parts  of 
Mary,  Milly,  various  book  learning.  And  the  man 
had  been  himself  but  for  the  grace  of  God;  himself 
pulled  about  fantastically.  Our  modern  villains  are 
ourselves  in  apprehension  or  in  irony.  He  had  felt 
the  need  of  an  ideal  world,  and  the  theater  had  helped 
him  to  feel  things  intensely,  to  see  them  beautifully. 
He  had  thought  that  he  might  bring  life  to  the  old 
thing  and  carry  on  its  great,  degraded  traditions.  He 
could  accomplish  the  miracle  of  reconciliation;  he 
could  find  beauty  in  strange  places.  And  what  an 
opportunity!  The  number  of  good  novelists  at  work 
is  disconcerting  to  any  one  who  looks  for  eminence  in 
that  line,  but  the  play-writers  that  the  ardent  young 
man  thinks  worth  consideration  may  almost  be  told 
on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  "  Among  the  blind  the 
one-eyed  man  is  king,"  Attar  had  said  when  this  point 
was  suggested.  It  made  Geoffrey  feel  a  mean  pre- 
tender. And  was  this  sham  world  his  real  one? 
Was  he  still  to  live  the  placid,  sedentary  life  of  the 
body  and  justify  it  with  the  high  adventures  of  the 
mind  ?  He  had  had  the  grace  to  be  made  uncomfort- 
able by  the  incitements  of  Wells  to  an  active  citizen- 
ship, and  when  he  read  a  Kipling  story  about  some 
man  "  sticking  it "  in  a  remote,  impossible  Indian  hill 
station,  reproachful  voices  would  call  to  him.  And 
yet  he  would  always  rebel  against  the  crude  exigencies 
of  war.  He  idealized  himself  as  a  specialist  in  fine 
relations  and  could  feel  some  impatience  at  being 


106  TRUE  LOVE 

called  upon  to  consider  these  simple,  primitive  ques- 
tions of  national  safety.  "  War !  "  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  But  if  we  are  coarsened  we  are  beaten."  He 
wished  he  had  thought  of  this  while  Attar  was 
there. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SUMMER 

THE  Archduke  was  murdered  on  June  28th,  but  it  has 
not  been  our  way  in  these  islands  to  bother  much  about 
murders  in  Eastern  Europe.  Of  course  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  platitudes  about  the  Balkans  being  a  hotbed 
of  unrest,  but  they  can  accomplish  a  good  deal  of  that 
without  much  obvious  harm  to  us.  Mr.  Chesterton 
(or  was  it  Mr.  Belloc?)  once  said  something  funny 
about  the  first  man  to  declare  that  the  death  of  Francis 
Joseph  would  be  the  signal  for  upheaval  in  Europe, 
but  that  tough  old  gentleman  had  lived  so  long  and 
upheavals  in  the  future  are  so  innocuous  that  we 
didn't  trouble  about  it.  Meeting  Attar  again  in  the 
corridor,  Geoffrey  had  said :  "  Well,  is  your  way  any 
nearer?"  Round  joined  them,  and  they  discussed 
things  in  a  desultory  way  and  with  quiet  minds.  Geof- 
frey suggested  that  there  was  an  immense  solidity  and 
assurance  about  things,  even  Eastern  Europe  things. 
The  others  agreed  without  enthusiasm,  and  Round 
said,  "  Like  the  rickyard  before  the  tramp  lights  his 
pipe  there."  He  agreed  that  it  was  not  a  complete 
analogy. 

It  was  summer,  and  Geoffrey  sweated  over  his 
games,  and  meditated  occasionally  on  the  embryo  of 
a  masterpiece.  Suddenly  there  came  Austria's  ulti- 

109 


110  TRUE  LOVE 

matum  to  Serbia,  and  Russia's  decision  to  resist. 
Everybody  told  everybody  that  it  was  mighty  serious, 
but  few  felt  it  to  be  so.  The  nearer  war  came,  the 
more  unlikely  it  looked.  Geoffrey  had  a  pleasant 
Saturday  afternoon  at  his  suburban  lawn  tennis  club, 
and  the  intervals  between  the  sets  were  spent  in 
mutual  assurances  that  it  was  absurd  and  impossible. 
Indeed,  the  topic  was  exhausted  presently,  for  most 
people  were  too  shaky  in  their  foreign  politics  to 
continue.  Plans  for  the  autumn  holiday  were  not  in- 
terrupted, and  the  neighborly  contacts  were  reassur- 
ing. Tea,  gay  chatter,  white  flannel,  the  flying  balls, 
the  struggle  for  trivial  masteries ;  it  was  all  reassuring. 
Those  nice  people  the  Wibberleys,  told  Geoffrey  that 
they  were  going  to  Grasmere  for  the  Bank  Holiday 
week-end,  and  that  Miss  Sibyl  Drew  would  accom- 
pany them.  The  Playgoers'  season  was  over,  and, 
though  there  was  the  prospect  of  hot  and  tiresome 
weeks  at  Blackpool  and  elsewhere  for  the  poor,  ex- 
hausted actors,  some  respite  was  granted.  Mrs.  Wib- 
berley  talked  of  Sibyl's  art,  and  entangled  Geoffrey 
in  a  discussion  about  Alice  Dean.  It  was  rather 
pleasant,  but  he  wasn't  always  quite  sure  what  she 
meant  or  whether  they  were  talking  of  the  same  thing. 
As  to  the  prospects,  "  We  cannot  go  to  war,"  she  said 
with  finality. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Wibberley  said:  "You  want  a  holi- 
day, Mr.  Arden,"  and  it  appeared  that  Geoffrey  was 
meaning  to  spend  the  next  week-end  somewhere  in 
the  Lakes.  It  had  just  occurred  to  him,  and  as  he 
admitted  that  his  plans  were  not  settled  and  that  Gras- 


SUMMER  111 

mere  always  attracted  him,  the^rest  was  easy.  He 
checked  Mrs.  Wibberley's  tentative  invitation  to  stay 
with  them,  dependent  as  it  was  on  the  capacity  of 
beds  and  the  shuffling  of  the  family,  and  declared 
firmly  for  the  hotel.  Their  offers  of  hospitality  were 
not  exhausted,  and  he  explained  that  he  couldn't  take 
all  his  meals  with  them  because  the  hotel  folk  wouldn't 
stand  it — unless,  indeed,  he  had  a  bottle  of  champagne 
every  morning  for  the  good  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Wib- 
berley  considered  champagne  vulgar. 

Geoffrey's  visit  to  Grasmere  was  a  sort  of  failure. 
Austria  was  at  war  with  Serbia,  Russia  was  mobiliz- 
ing, he  read  the  comments  on  Germany's  ultimatum  to 
Russia  as  he  traveled  north  on  the  Saturday  morning. 
It  was  brilliant  summer  weather,  the  mountains  and 
lakes  called  him,  and  there  was  another  allurement. 
He  was  happy  and  he  was  deeply  disturbed.  As  he 
sped  on  his  holiday  quest  thousands  of  his  fellows 
were  gathering  for  stern  work,  all  over  the  world 
men  of  action  were  alert  and  moving.  Right  or  wrong 
they  were  moving  while  he  was  gadding  about.  He 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  the  landscape  was 
familiar.  It  was  the  same,  and  he  knew  it  wasn't  the 
same ;.  it  was  a  monstrous  illusion.  He  shaped  gran- 
diose ideas  of  nature's  great  treachery  which  would 
betray  us  with  a  kiss ;  of  placid  cattle  waiting  for 
their  fate  in  a  bloody  old  world;  of  death,  the  grave, 
and  that  layer  of  worms  all  round  the  earth  and  always 
ready.  Far,  far  away,  he  and  millions  like  him  had 
a  glimpse  of  the  ugly  specter  waiting  at  the  end  of  a 
long  road;  impelled  by  passion,  honor,  and  expedi- 


112  TRUE  LOVE 

ency  they  would  crowd  along  it  together.  And  so 
he  hastened  to  his  sweetheart  in  brilliant  summer. 

The  jollities  of  arrival  scattered  apprehensions,  but 
these  returned.  The  Wibberleys,  with  splendid  assur- 
ance, declared  that  a  general  European  war  simply 
couldn't  be ;  but  they  declared  it  too  often.  Sibyl  had 
changed.  She  was  gentle  with  him,  she  was  almost 
cordial,  but  he  looked  into  frightened  eyes.  How  far 
did  she  see?  What  did  she  see?  She  was  sensitive, 
he  knew,  but  he  could  have  asked  her  what  was  wrong 
and  waited  for  something  definite.  Mrs.  Wibberley 
told  him  that  the  dear  thing  was  run  down  and  had 
wanted  a  change  badly.  She  seemed  more  uneasy 
about  Sibyl  than  what  they  called  the  political  situa- 
tion. She  asked  Geoffrey  if  he  knew  anything  about 
Sibyl's  people.  "  If  she  should  be  really  ill."  He  told 
her  that  he  knew  nothing.  The  young  Wibberleys, 
two  hearty  schoolgirls  and  a  little  boy,  were  a  human- 
izing distraction.  Sibyl  relaxed  with  them,  and  he 
saw  her,  in  moments,  as  a  careless  child. 

Walking  from  the  hotel  to  the  Wibberleys'  lodgings 
he  tried  to  get  defmiteness  into  a  dim  remembrance  of 
those  frightened  eyes;  and  surely  it  was  of  a  picture. 
Yes;  the  captive  lady  was  compelled  to  dance  with 
the  bandit  chief,  and  she  stared  out  of  the  picture  into 
your  eyes,  for  there  was  no  other  figure.  It  was 
irrelevant,  of  course,  Miss  Drew  could  not  be  afraid 
of  him.  And  yet  he  stopped  for  a  moment,  he  walked 
slowly;  he  wanted  time  to  think.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
it  was  he  whom  she  feared ;  not  battle  and  murder  and 
the  mighty  imbroglio,  but  the  lover.  He  was  pitiful 


SUMMER  113 

and  exultant,  and  yet  then  and  later  he  was  doubtful. 

It  was  agreed  that  they  were  not  to  talk  about  war 
and  the  rumors  of  war,  but  they  all  had  relapses 
except  Sibyl.  The  young  Wibberleys  made  a  lark  of 
it  and  gave  their  parents  openings  for  sententious  re- 
proval.  Mrs.  Wibberley  counseled  all  to  maintain 
calmness  by  gazing  upon  "  the  eternal  hills."  Instincts 
of  politeness  or  acquiescence  turned  their  eyes  to  Silver 
Howe,  which  they  regarded  steadily  for  some  mo- 
ments without  appreciable  result.  In  the  absence  of  a 
humorous  understanding  the  Wibberleys  became 
rather  tiresome,  and  Geoffrey  could  not  attempt  to 
detach  Sibyl  to  laugh  at  her  hosts.  It  was  hot,  it  was 
misty,  and  they  were  missing  the  holiday  note.  As 
the  evening  deepened  it  became  better;  Mrs.  Wib- 
berley's  promised  calm  seemed  to  descend  upon  them. 
The  hills  were  succeeded  by  the  stars  or  fortified  by 
them.  The  young  people  went  to  bed  and  the  elders 
sat  in  the  little  garden  "  letting  it  sink  in  " — the  phrase 
this  time  was  Geoffrey's. 

Sunday  seemed  to  bring  an  uneasy  respite  to  a 
cracking  world,  but  incredible  rumors  were  thick  for 
those  who  would  gather  them,  and  presently  it  was 
known  that  Germany  had  declared  war  on  Russia 
and  demanded  explanations  from  France.  Geoffrey 
breakfasted  rather  pleasantly  at  the  hotel,  and  being 
alone  he  had  some  advantage  over  agitated  parties 
which  would  certainly  have  roused  Mrs.  Wibberley's 
reprobation.  Without  framing  the  positive  intention, 
he  thought  of  plunging  into  love-making  for  a  relief ; 
he  yearned  for  Sibyl  alone,  for  the  untrammeled  op- 


114  TRUE  LOVE 

portunity.  There  was  not  much  difficulty  about  that, 
for  though  Mrs.  Wibberley  was  far  above  positive 
nods  and  winks  she  had  the  mild  megalomania  of  the 
matchmaker,  and  knew  which  way  things  were  tend- 
ing. There  was  some  question  of  church,  and  Geof- 
frey suggested  that  Grasmere  church  was  an  idea 
and  not  an  institution  to  be  put  to  the  proof.  Mrs. 
Wibberley  determined  to  go  and  take  her  husband, 
impelled,  it  seemed,  by  critical  instincts ;  something  un- 
usual might  happen  in  a  church  and  on  such  an  oc- 
casion. It  was,  after  all,  an  Established  Church,  and 
there  was  no  trusting  the  Government  to  avoid  lapses 
in  taste  or  discretion.  The  children,  of  course,  would 
accompany  their  parents,  for  the  Wibberleys,  without 
being  precisely  church  people  imposed  their  liberality 
upon  the  church  and  took  in  exchange  such  conveni- 
ences and  respectabilities  as  it  could  supply.  Sibyl 
made  rather  a  forlorn  attempt  to  join  them  and  Mrs. 
Wibberley  would  not  have  it,  and  Geoffrey  facetiously 
claimed  a  slight  advantage  in  this  "  choice  of  evils." 
Sibyl  submitted  with  a  good  grace. 

They  started  rather  languidly,  but  it  was  a  relief  to 
get  in  motion.  Generally  they  were  silent,  for  it  was 
no  time  for  small  talk  and  the  tremendous  utterance 
did  not  come.  They  made  their  way  up  far  Easdale, 
and  there  they  found  a  little  patch  of  heather  and  sat 
down  among  it.  They  had  brilliant  sunshine,  the 
scent  of  honey,  the  drone  of  bees ;  it  occurred  to  Geof- 
frey that  this  was  an  extraordinarily  correct  imitation 
of  happiness.  But  the  near  murmurs  sounded  like 
distant  menaces  and  the  beneficent  sunshine  scorched 


SUMMER  115 

them  and  drove  them  to  seek  "shelter.  They  found 
it  with  some  difficulty  by  climbing  the  side  of  the  fell 
to  a  ravine  over  which  a  mountain-ash  presided.  Here 
they  attained  shadow  and  seclusion,  but  there  was  a 
babble — almost  a  roar — of  falling  waters,  so  that  they 
must  strain  the  voice  and  the  ear  if  they  would  con- 
verse. He  had  a  mad  idea  to  overcome  the  waters 
by  a  torrent  of  passionate  speech,  to  shout  against 
them  till  he  silenced  them.  The  impulse  was  not 
strong  enough ;  it  was  all  in  his  mind,  and  the  inertia 
of  the  body  was  not  to  be  overcome.  And  to  bel- 
low "  I  love  you "  against  the  waterfall  would  be 
absurd. 

This  new  menace  in  the  world  took  from  love  its 
fervor,  made  it  impossible,  or,  at  least,  inopportune. 
So  he  reflected  with  some  calmness,  but  he  was  calm 
enough  to  recall  a  theory  of  his  own,  that  love  de- 
clared itself  at  the  powerful  crisis,  not  the  relevant 
one.  Why,  then,  didn't  he,  like  Benedick,  cry  "  I  do 
love  nothing  in  the  world  so  much  as  you.  Is  not  that 
strange  ?  "  He  had  tried  to  found  a  little  comedy  on 
this,  and  the  backward  lover  was  to  declare  himself 
when  the  kitchen  chimney  caught  fire.  And  here  he 
could  think  of  such  things;  a  figure  of  comedy  him- 
self. 

Sibyl  rose  from  the  rock  on  which  she  had  been 
seated,  and  with  a  frowning  face  led  the  way  from 
this  retreat  "  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  talk,"  she  said 
when  the  noise  was  muffled,  "  but  that  takes  all  the 
virtue  out  of  our  silence.  I  should  have  begun  to 
shout  if  we  had  stayed  there." 


116  TRUE  LOVE 

Startled,  he  said,  "  What  would  you  have 
shouted?" 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  "  I  suppose  a  primi- 
tive human  cry,"  she  said. 

They  sat  down  again  in  the  sunshine.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "  we  lack  a  common  cry  such  as  a  crow  or  a 
bleat.  We're  all  different,  we  humans." 

"  But  all  alike." 

He  assented  indifferently. 

"  These  Germans.    It's  fighting  your  own  kind." 

He  agreed.  She  was  silent,  and  then — "  Will  it 
stop  the  theaters  ?  "  she  said. 

He  saw  her  pathetically  as  a  young  woman  with  a 
living  to  make.  These  theatrical  people  are  queerly 
isolated.  They  drift  about  the  world  and  have  no 
fixed  address  till  they  gain  a  palatial  one.  Even  their 
names  are  not  their  own.  They  are  orphans  or  they 
own  snuffy  old  fathers  and  impossible  mothers  who 
hang  round  stage-doors.  No.  That  sort  of  thing  must 
be  obsolete.  They  are  artists  now,  of  course,  and  of 
the  highest  respectability.  He  recollected  that  Mrs. 
Wibberley  had  made  quite  a  point  about  it  when  there 
was  a  question  of  Sibyl  coming  to  the  tennis  club. 
Miss  Drew  was  a  lady.  A  high  degree  of  spirituality 
was  implied.  And,  indeed,  Sibyl  was — Mrs.  Wibber- 
ley had  added  or  amplified — a  gentlewoman.  Pursu- 
ing Mrs.  Wibberley's  vein,  there  seemed  to  be  no 
reason  why  she  shouldn't  be  the  daughter  of  a  baronet, 
for  instance.  He  was  curious  about  her.  Here,  on 
this  brilliant  day,  among  the  hills,  and  with  the  world 
splitting  in  twain,  he  found  himself  checked  and 


SUMMER  117 

faintly  curious.  Who  was  she?^What  was  she?  To 
probe  was  impossible.  He  might  have  said,  "  Tell 
me  all  about  yourself,"  but  that  was  the  wrong  order. 
"  I  love  you  "  must  come  first,  and  he  couldn't  say 
that  now.  When  she  was  away  he  could  have  said 
it,  and  now,  when  she  was  adorably  and  pathetically 
before  him,  he  couldn't.  He  didn't  love  her  enough 
yet.  He  had  not  learnt  to  love.  He  was  held  back 
by  all  the  instinctive  precautions  of  the  idealist.  He 
was  no  facile  lover;  the  delirium  of  joy  was  a  thing 
to  be  held  in  leash.  Yet  in  this  idealism  he  was  half- 
conscious  of  a  strain  of  fatuity.  He  would  not  yield 
to  mere  contact ;  to  the  flush  of  the  senses.  Trembling 
on  the  brink,  the  final  impulse  was  delayed. 

"  I  made  a  remark,"  she  said ;  "  or,  rather,  I  asked 
a  question." 

"  It  started  me  thinking  of  all  sorts  of  things,"  he 
said. 

"  You  might  have  thought  aloud." 

"  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  have  been  quite  the  same." 

"  You  daren't  tell  me  what  you  think  of  me,"  she 
said. 

She  rose  again.  "  Too  hot,"  she  said  and  they 
walked  on  languidly.  "  The  sun's  like  a  policeman 
moving  us  on,"  she  said.  "  Vagabonds." 

"  Actors  are  vagabonds,  you  know,"  he  said  teas- 
ingly. 

"  That's  what  I  meant." 

"You  don't  feel  it?" 

"No.    You  do,  don't  you?" 

"Heavens!     No." 


118  TRUE  LOVE 

"  Oh,  I  know  your  opinions  and  convictions  are  all 
right.  But  your  feelings " 

"  I  do  not  feel  it." 

"You  feel  the  right  things,  don't  you?" 

"  Now  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

There  had  been  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  her  words 
but  now  she  answered  gaily :  "  See  what  a  high  ideal 
I've  got  of  you !  To  feel  and  think  together  is  just 
perfection,  isn't  it?" 

"  Don't,"  he  groaned  comically.  She  was  delight- 
ful, incisive;  she  was  positively  dangerous.  She  gave 
him  critical  pleasure  and  he  was  becoming  "  cold  " 
as  the  children  say  in  the  hiding  game.  She  was 
capable  of  keeping  him  at  a  distance  by  delicacies 
of  flirtation.  And  he  had  been  conscious  of  something 
impending.  He  could  have  believed  that  she  was 
ready  to  tell  him  something.  And  what  was  there 
to  tell? 

They  sauntered  down  the  pass,  and  it  seemed  that 
both  had  escaped  from  something  though  it  could  not 
be  far  away.  He  was  disappointed  and  they  had  their 
little  jokes  together.  They  were  missing  big  things 
and  quite  enjoying  themselves.  It  was  like  keeping 
out  the  Atlantic  with  a  mop.  And  as  they  approached 
the  confines  of  the  village  he  raised  his  arms  in  a 
stiff,  impatient  gesture.  "  I'm  restless,"  he  said ;  "  I'm 
immensely  perturbed."  It  was  an  excuse,  a  defense, 
and  it  startled  her.  She  was  very  gentle  with  him ;  in 
a  moment  it  seemed  that  she  might  have  been  an  old 
and  affectionate  friend.  There  was  more  in  it  than 
that,  and  he  felt  that  this  was  the  most  romantic 


SUMMER  119 

moment  of  his  morning.  He  remembered  that  they 
had  once  discussed  acting,  and  together  they  had 
reached  a  tentative  conclusion — it  was  a  concession 
for  him,  perhaps — that  as  it  was  self-expression  we 
must  always  be  acting.  In  that  sense  she  was  acting 
now,  but  such  acting  is  not  deception.  She  was  always 
doing  her  best.  Surely  she  was  adorable  and  he  a 
colossal  fool. 

They  encountered  the  Wibberleys,  who  decided  that 
the  churchgoing  had  proved  restful.  Geoffrey  was 
conscious  of  Mrs.  Wibberley's  sharp  eye  on  them, 
and  he  had  a  vision  of  himself  and  Sibyl  propelled 
towards  the  altar  by  this  admirable  couple,  and  the 
good  Wibberley  "  giving  her  away."  However,  they 
were  all  friendly  together,  and  Mrs.  Wibberley  led 
them  round  the  churchyard  to  Wordsworth's  grave, 
that  haunt  of  deep  meditation  and  of  the  platitudes. 
"  You  cannot  believe  in  war,"  she  said,  "  here,"  and 
they  gazed  on  stone  and  earth  and  listened  to  the  bab- 
bling stream.  It  was  decided  that  war  would  be  an 
affront  to  Wordsworth's  spirit ;  "  do  they  realize 
that  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Wibberley.  They  accomplished  some- 
thing very  like  placidity.  There  was  an  air  of  kindli- 
ness about  it,  after  all.  He  saw  these  Wibberleys 
sometimes  as  facile  humbugs,  but  the  worst  of  us  is 
deeply  human.  These  were  not  the  worst,  and  if  they 
were  a  little  blunt,  their  was  the  bluntness  of  the 
devotee.  They  seemed  to  devote  themselves  to  noth- 
ing in  particular;  to  the  highest  taste  in  general  or  to 
the  latest  of  the  higher  fashions.  Well,  they  were  all 
in  one  boat;  if  the  mountains  fell  they  would  all  be 


120  TRUE  LOVE 

squashed  equally,  and  if  the  Germans  came  they  would 
suffer  equally.  Nay,  it  might  be  that  he  would  squeal 
while  Wibberley  remained  heroic.  What  strange 
things  a  great  war  would  reveal !  It  would  get  down 
to  some  essential  things.  Laborious  acquirements — 
call  them  moral  or  spiritual  if  you  like — would  wither 
away  while  good  old  primitive  qualities  flourished. 
He  meditated  disloyalties  to  the  spirit  of  man,  per- 
haps ;  he  had  a  glimpse  of  chaos. 

No  reverberations  from  a  frenzied  world  afar  dis- 
turbed their  afternon  slackness.  They  had  precious 
moments  of  slackness,  of  the  old  Time  running  out. 
The  children  vanished,  and  the  elders  sat  about  in 
deckchairs  and  talked  and  dozed  and  stared  at  nature 
and  thought  of  the  morrow.  Geoffrey  was  induced  to 
read  aloud  some  of  the  "  Georgian  "  poetry,  and  it  was 
in  their  minds  that  these  were  young  men,  and  that 
when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears  man  is  not 
merely  a  poet.  It  made  everything  so  unreal,  it  shat- 
tered the  reflection  of  everything.  At  intervals,  Mrs. 
Wibberley  assured  them  that  there  could  be  no  war, 
but  Wibberley  began  to  take  a  deep,  sagacious,  non- 
committal line. 

Geoffrey  had  no  more  intimate  talk  with  Sibyl, 
and,  indeed,  they  did  not  seek  it.  Their  next  meeting 
was  uncertain,  they  did  not  know  how  far  they  had 
gone,  they  might  yet  turn  back.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  they  were  watching  one  another.  It  was  for  him 
to  take  the  gallant,  romantic  plunge,  and  delays  and 
hesitancies  were  affronts  to  his  passion.  Passion? 
Ah,  that  was  it  An  ardent  man  could  not  acquiesce 


SUMMER  121 

in  less  than  that.  So  he  must  be  sure.  He  must 
watch,  he  must  assay,  he  must  measure  the  flood. 
Or  he  must  wait  for  the  fire  from  heaven. 

On  Monday  morning  he  had  a  letter  from  Mary. 
It  reflected  the  perturbation  of  the  time,  and  there  was 
an  indignant  ring  in  it ;  the  protest  of  the  quiet  person 
disturbed  by  shameful,  dangerous  clamor.  She  had 
met  Round,  it  seemed,  and  he  had  asked  when  Geof- 
frey was  expected  home.  Round  had  meditated, 
"  eyeing  me  kindly,"  and  then  suggested  that  Geoffrey 
should  come  on  Monday,  a  day  earlier  than  he  was 
due.  Lindsay  "  might  like  to  have  him  about,"  and 
to  a  hint  of  the  loyalties  Geoffrey  must  respond. 
Mary  had  asked  Round  what  he  thought  about  it  all, 
and  he  had  shaken  his  head  and  gone  away  sadly. 
Mary  said  that  she  had  not  understood  how  serious  it 
all  was  till  she  saw  it  in  Round's  face.  That  was  a 
symbol,  an  index  of  European  upheaval.  She  repeated 
that  he  had  been  very  kind  to  her. 

So  Geoffrey  couldn't  wait  till  the  Tuesday  morning, 
but  set  off  after  lunch  on  the  Bank  Holiday.  "  It 
isn't  that  I  matter,"  he  explained.  "  A  war  snuffs 
me  out.  But  I  see  that  I  must  be  there.  What's 
going  to  happen  ?  " 

He  sent  his  bag  on  to  Windermere,  and  set  off  to 
walk  in  the  early  afternoon.  They  all  walked  a  few 
hundred  yards  with  him.  The  Wibberley  girls  wanted 
to  go  to  Ambleside  with  him  but  were  overruled.  He 
was  quite  a  popular  person  in  the  little  party,  and  had 
cemented  friendships  with  a  handsome  offering  of 
Grasmere  gingerbread.  How  normal  everything  was 


122  TRUE  LOVE 

t 

and  how  changed!  Presently  he  strode  away  from 
them  and,  looking  back,  the  group  seemed  forlorn, 
pathetic.  Mrs.  Wibberley's  arm  was  round  her  boy's 
shoulder,  and  in  Geoffrey's  agitated  mood  this  struck 
him  as  intolerably  poignant.  He  was  sorry  to  part 
from  them.  Sibyl  was  not  prominent,  and,  strangely, 
she  was  not  even  in  the  front  of  his  mind.  It  was  a 
simple  parting  from  the  Wibberleys,  but  from  her  it 
was  a  perplexity  to  be  considered  presently. 

He  found  that  he  had  committed  an  error  of  judg- 
ment. This  road  walk  from  Grasmere  to  Ambleside 
was  intolerable.  Motor-cars,  dust,  stink,  heat,  made 
an  unlovely  world  of  it;  a  reeking,  blatant,  violent 
world.  The  ridiculous  thing  about  it  was  that  all 
this  was  supposed  to  be  an  expression  of  joy  in  the 
loveliness  of  nature.  He  became  bitterly  satirical 
about  these  material  agitations  in  the  land  of  Words- 
worth and,  pausing,  he  turned  to  look  at  distant 
hill-tops.  Peace,  quietism,  the  life  of  meditation  were 
best.  No  doubt  it  became  infernally  dull  after  a  time. 
He  couldn't  think  evenly.  A  car  driven  by  a  man 
in  khaki  missed  him  narrowly,  and  Geoffrey  reflected 
resentfully  that  the  man  was  inefficient.  These 
bustling,  hurtling  creatures  were  not  even  efficient. 
Was  this  world  going  to  crash?  And  what  right  had 
he  to  dissociate  himself  from  it?  Were  they  on  the 
eve  of  a  national  humiliation?  The  braggarts  might 
pretend  to  confidence  and  call  it  patriotism,  but  at  the 
heart  of  every  Englishman  was  this  distrust.  We  had 
been  so  long  a  great  nation.  And  we  had  learnt  that 
greatness  is  not  all  in  what  we  have  so  gallantly  sung 


SUMMER  123 

about.  You  may  lead  the  world-  in  noble  things  and 
go  down  before  iron  and  brass. 

At  Ambleside,  Geoffrey  got  a  lift  in  the  public  car 
and  rumbled  away  in  moderate  discomfort.  He  found 
himself  traveling  against  the  stream,  and  with  a  choice 
of  empty  railway  carriages.  He  pursued  his  gloomy 
reflections  on  the  theme  of  national  decadence  or  na- 
tional softness.  Had  we  failed  to  conform  to  the  con- 
ditions of  national  existence?  Must  we  go  down 
before  the  conquerors  of  the  world?  Would  the 
nightmares  come  true  ?  It  was  going  to  be  a  bad  time 
for  gentle  people,  for  the  Christian  spirit,  for  the  pure 
in  heart.  He  must  be  ready  to  learn,  but  he  must  be 
loyal  to  what  he  knew  and  felt. 

At  Lancaster  he  was  joined  by  a  slightly  intoxicated 
reservist  on  his  way  to  join  up  and  witnessed  the 
family  parting.  The  man  was  bluff  and  jocose,  the 
woman  voluble  and  conscious  of  her  part,  the  children 
seemed  to  take  their  cue  in  forlorn  whimpering.  The 
man  bawled  words  of  comfort  and  turned  to  wink  at 
Geoffrey,  who  didn't  like  it.  The  whistle  sounded,  the 
baby  was  held  aloft,  the  scene  became  significant,  as 
the  train  moved.  The  silent  woman  holding  up  the 
baby  passed  from  his  sight,  the  man  leaned  out  of  the 
window,  shouting  and  waving.  He  was  noisy  and  in- 
adequate. Falling  back  heavily  into  his  seat,  he  glared 
stupidly  at  Geoffrey  and  fumbled- for  his  pipe.  "  Make 
a  bit  o'  fuss.  Women  and  kids,"  he  said  apologeti- 
cally. It  was  one  man  of  the  world  to  another. 
"  Wonderful  cook,"  he  said.  He  was  referring  to  his 
wife,  and  Geoffrey  divined  a  consciousness  that  she 


124  TRUE  LOVE 

did  not  make  a  favorable  impression  upon  an  out- 
sider. He  repeated  "  Wonderful  cook,"  shaking  his 
head  in  affected  meditation.  "  Your  wife  ? "  said 
Geoffrey,  and  he  replied  "  Rather !  " 

Geoffrey  was  curious  to  know  his  trade,  and  put  it 
to  him  that  it  was  awkward  to  be  called  up  suddenly 
like  this.  It  appeared  that  he  was  in  the  butchering 
line.  The  man  was  not  conscious  of  any  joke  in  the 
alternatives  of  soldier  and  butcher,  or  perhaps  the  joke 
had  lost  its  savor.  He  was  with  his  brother-in-law. 
"  Nice  little  business,"  he  said,  and  with  nods  and 
winks  explained  that  the  brother-in-law  was  a  bache- 
lor. "  Lot  older  than  me,"  he  said,  and  the  man  of 
the  world  shone  out  again;  an  ill-favored  wife  was 
more  than  justified.  His  comments  on  the  European 
situation  had  some  verbal  quaintness  but  they  were 
not  interesting.  He  produced  a  bottle  which  was  prof- 
fered politely.  Geoffrey  declined  and,  frowning 
slightly,  he  took  a  good  swig  himself.  He  proffered 
it  again,  quite  without  truculence,  and  Geoffrey — he 
didn't  know  why — was  impelled  to  accept.  The  mouth 
of  the  bottle  was  wiped  with  a  filthy  handkerchief. 
It  was  stiffish  whisky  and  water  and  Geoffrey  felt  a 
glow  and  lift.  The  man  said  he  knew  a  gentleman 
when  he  saw  one.  "  You  oughter  be  first  class,"  he 
said,  and  added  sympathetically,  "  I  know  what  it  is 
to  be  out  o'  luck."  He  grew  sentimental.  "  Them 
kids  '11  be  'avin'  their  tea,"  he  said,  and  then,  "  She's 
a  wonderful  manager." 

When  you  see  a  soldier  going  to  the  war  you  want 
to  know  what's  in  his  heart;  what  is  the  quality  of 


SUMMER  125 

his  fortitude  or  the  color  of  hi&^apprehensions ;  what 
he  sees  at  the  end  of  the  vista.  "  It  may  be  some 
time  before  you  see  them  again,"  said  Geoffrey,  and 
if  he  had  feared  that  his  curiosity  might  be  brutal  or 
selfish  he  was  reassured.  The  man  warmed  to  his  own 
case,  in  which  the  children  and  the  wonderful  woman 
were  prominent,  but  the  nice  little  business  the  prin- 
cipal item.  A  stray  bullet  might  bring  irremediable 
loss,  and  he  was  eloquent  on  the  dangers  of  war  to 
men  of  substance.  As  to  boys  with  their  way  to  make 
it  didn't  matter,  but  he  had  a  lofty  ideal  of  property. 
All  the  same,  you  must  do  your  duty,  and  then,  and 
for  many  days  to  come,  Geoffrey  felt  that  something 
new — something  old  as  the  hills  but  strangely  revived 
and  strengthened — was  coming  into  the  world.  You 
might  whittle  away  a  great  deal  from  this  fellow's 
pretensions,  but  something  remained;  he  merely  con- 
formed, but  there  may  be  profound  virtue  in  con- 
formity. And,  in  his  slipshod,  drunken  way,  he  faced 
the  thing;  he  was  aware  of  the  specter  at  the  end  of 
the  avenue.  He  had  heard  a  man  say  that  when  your 
time  came  you  had  to  go,  and  if  it  wasn't  a  bullet  it 
might  be  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  What  did  Geof- 
frey think  of  that?  He  wasn't  sure  about  it  himself 
— "  not  if  you  kept  out  of  draughts,"  he  said — but, 
anyhow,  it  was  for  the  old  soldiers  to  show  the  way. 
"  You  young  chaps  may  have  your  turn  this  time — 
young  gentlemen,"  he  corrected.  The  bottle  was  prof- 
fered again.  Geoffrey  declined,  pleading  a  poor  head 
for  that  sort  of  thing,  and  the  excuse  was  accepted 
with  commiseration,  "  Y'd  not  b'lieve  what  I've 


126  TRUE  LOVE 

drunk  this  day,"  the  man  said.  It  was  impossible  to 
attempt  heavy  reproach  or  argument  with  such  a  figure 
of  complacency.  Geoffrey  had  the  notion  that  it  would 
be  amusing  to  throw  the  bottle  out  of  the  window, 
but  a  row  would  be  tiresome.  The  man  talked  and 
drank  intermittently.  Finally  he  collapsed  into  sleep, 
and  Geoffrey  recalled  having  seen  Coquelin  do  it 
almost  precisely  like  this  in  that  old  play  L'Aven- 
turiere,  which  had  been  his  first  taste  of  Parisian 
gaieties. 

He  was  left  meditating  on  his  own  romantic  attach- 
ment, and  wondering  dejectedly  whether  it  had  the 
makings  of  a  passion.  Yet  he  affected  to  despise  these 
grand  passions,  all  of  a  pattern ;  he  wanted  something 
of  his  own,  human,  but  not  merely  humanity's.  He 
wanted  a  sweetheart  and  she  was  charming.  He 
wanted  simple,  irresponsible  romance  without  thought 
of  the  long  years  and  the  heavy  times.  The  noble 
lover  is  beset  with  doubts  and  he  may  even  envy  the 
Don  Juans  of  the  world.  He  had  not  learnt  to  love, 
he  was  not  sure,  and  presently  all  might  be  simplified. 
Nearing  Manchester,  it  seemed  that  it  was  simplified. 
To  leave  her,  to  be  without  her,  was  intolerable.  His 
heart  sank  and  he  felt  that  he  must  concede  something 
to  himself,  so  he  permitted  his  thoughts  to  take  a 
happy  turn.  And  yet  he  could  not  get  away  from  this 
menace  of  the  war;  he  realized  that  he  was  not  one 
of  those  who  can  rush  to  the  adventure.  His  thoughts 
grew  heavy,  heavy.  He  was  profoundly  disturbed. 
He  hadn't  even  first  principles  arranged,  and  convic- 
tions, it  seemed,  must  be  improvised.  He  was  for 


SUMMER  127 

peace,  but  he  had  no  faith  in  the^ogmas  that  excluded 
war.  It  was  coming,  and  it  could  not  be  brushed 
gently  aside. 

The  husband  going  to  the  war  slept  heavily,  and  he 
was  an  unlovely  creature,  a  queer  type  of  the  heroic 
arming  for  the  fray.  And  even  a  queerer  one,  per- 
haps, of  the  married  life,  of  the  faithful  mate.  You 
might  say  that  he  had  married  for  a  share  in  the 
butchering  business  and  was  out  to  defend  it.  And 
why  not?  We  are  a  solid  nation  with  great  posses- 
sions, and  we  shall  not  abandon  them  to  follow  any 
will-o'-the-wisp.  Geoffrey  gazed  with  distaste  on  his 
fellow-man  who  sprawled  and  reeked  there  so  puz- 
zlingly.  Somewhere  in  that  ugly  carcass,  uglier  than 
the  beasts  he  slew,  was  the  precious  residue  of  that 
indomitable  spirit  which  was  to  shatter  the  world, 
and,  somehow,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  to  save  it.  The 
sleeper  was  not  easily  aroused  at  Manchester,  and 
Geoffrey  did  not  enjoy  the  proddings  and  shakings 
that  were  necessary  to  achieve  it.  The  fellow  went 
off  morosely  to  some  vague  destination. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  EVE 

THE  Manchester  streets  had  the  restless,  jaded  look 
of  any  summer  evening.  The  people  who  thronged 
excessively  the  main  thoroughfares,  were  keyed  to  a 
sharper  note  than  usual,  and  yet  it  seemed  that  wars 
and  rumors  of  wars  were  nothing  to  some,  while 
with  others  the  long  period  of  stress  and  endurance 
was  now  beginning  to  show  even  in  aspects  resolutely 
normal.  It  was  on  this  evening  that  Germany  de- 
clared war  on  France,  and  Sir  Edward  Grey's  speech 
in  the  House  of  Commons  was  coming  through  in 
fragments  to  the  evening  papers.  It  was  received  with 
dismay,  with  reprobation,  with  grave  acquiescence, 
with  enthusiasm.  The  nation  had  not  acquired  an 
attitude  and  while  one  section  was  ready  with  its 
facile  acclamations  of  war  another  resisted,  protested, 
strained  at  the  inevitable  and  desperately  pressed  its 
opposition  even  beyond  the  bounds  that  reason  and 
knowledge  might  justify.  The  party  of  peace  had 
failed,  and  any  word  of  indiscretion  in  the  bitterest 
moment  of  its  failure  was  to  be  recorded  and  re- 
iterated. In  hundreds  of  clubs  and  thousands  of  pot- 
houses, the  feeble  minority  was  overwhelmed  and  it 
seemed  that  a  nation  of  Cassandras,  in  the  glow  of 
prophecy,  had  neglected  the  obvious  precautions  for 

128 


THE  EVE  129 

safety.  The  Herald  strove  yet  against  the  stream,  and 
its  final,  impassioned  protests  roused  some  childish 
displays  of  popular  fury.  Charges  of  German  in- 
fluence, of  mere  treachery,  were  less  to  bear  than  the 
reproaches  of  those  ungenerous  opponents  who  pro- 
fessed to  find  nothing  but  perverseness  and  senti- 
mentality in  a  great  and  courageous  policy  with  hard 
thinking  behind  its  idealism.  The  Herald  could  laugh 
at  the  threat  of  broken  windows  but  not  at  broken 
friendships ;  when  a  drunken  man  demanded  to  see  its 
list  of  shareholders  it  was  not  difficult  to  achieve  an 
ironical  politeness.  But  in  the  heat  of  these  early 
days  passion  ran  easily  into  molds  and  attitudes  be- 
came fixed.  We  have  suffered  a  good  deal  in  this 
war  from  the  fixed  attitude,  though  it  may  be  difficult 
sometimes  to  distinguish  this  from  the  finer  endur- 
ance. 

Geoffrey  called  at  the  office — a  blank,  dreary  place 
between-times  on  this  holiday  evening — and  it  ap- 
peared that,  in  default  of  work  more  to  the  point, 
there  was  a  theater  to  be  "  covered."  If  the  piece 
had  been  a  great  tragedy  it  might  have  been  opportune, 
but  here  was  some  comedy  on  the  borders  of  farce, 
some  trivial  fiddling  while  Rome  burned.  It  seemed 
a  futility,  but  habit  and  custom  persist  through  the 
cracks  of  doom,  and  while  history  was  making  itself 
too  furiously  for  coherent  record  the  world  at  large 
was  still  controlled  by  its  old  machinery.  If  there 
was  a  difference  it  was  in  the  mind.  Geoffrey  con- 
cluded that  he  had  not  time  to  go  home,  and  he  went 
for  his  dinner  to  the  garish  hotel  where  the  froth  and 


130  TRUE  LOVE 

spume  of  Manchester  life  gathers.  Sitting  there  in 
the  grill-room  waiting  for  his  chop  he  had  a  glimpse 
of  what  was  called  the  French  restaurant,  locally 
reputed  to  be  the  last  word  in  expensive  luxury.  To- 
night he  had  a  childlike  notion  of  it  as  a  wicked, 
reckless  place;  he  could  have  fondly  supposed  that 
luxury  was  breathing  its  last  there — a  supposition  that 
events  were  not  to  justify.  In  the  hotel  generally 
there  was  vast  uneasiness  and  doubtless  some  of  the 
guests  believed  that  the  waiters  had  bombs  in  their 
coat-tails.  Many  of  the  waiters  had  disappeared,  and 
those  who  remained  suggested  that  Switzerland  was 
really  the  main  source  of  the  German  language.  Geof- 
frey dined  with  a  certain  enjoyment  of  the  occasion, 
with  a  sham  calm  and  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  he 
was  missing  things.  At  the  heart  of  the  world  were 
fierce  excitements  now  and  great  resolves  were  mak- 
ing. He  was  not  even  at  the  heart  of  the  Herald,  he 
was  infinitely  small  and  useless.  Yet  it  might  be  that 
a  time  was  coming  when  all  values  would  be  altered, 
when  every  man  would  have  to  show  the  native  hue 
of  his  resolution,  when  the  soft  places  and  the  clois- 
tered lives  would  be  rudely  broken  upon. 

Geoffrey  exchanged  nods  with  Bonsor  who  was 
dining  with  a  friend  a  few  tables  away.  Both  stared 
at  him  and  Bonsor's  friend  turned  away  with  what 
struck  Geoffrey  as  an  ugly  laugh.  He  forgot  them, 
and  presently  went  out  into  the  garden  where  he 
ordered  coffee ;  an  inexplicable  craving  caused  him  to 
add  a  liqueur.  He  sipped  and  glowed  with  some  il- 
lusion of  power  and  assurance,  weak  and  doubtful  at 


THE  EVE  131 

the  heart.  Bonsor  appeared  "with  his  friend,  and 
stopped  to  pronounce  some  emphatic  platitude  of  the 
occasion.  He  mentioned  the  Herald,  half  turning  to  his 
friend,  who  repeated  "The  Herald!"  and  laughed 
spasmodically.  "  Who  is  this  rude  gentleman  ?  "  said 
Geoffrey,  quoting  a  line  that  Irving  used  to  speak 
with  exquisite  effect  in  Wills's  Charles  I.  Bonsor,  in 
some  confusion,  introduced  Mr.  Riley,  and  did  not 
gain  in  ease  of  manner  when  the  others  merely  stared 
at  one  another.  He  was  unhappily  inspired  to  explain 
that  Geoffrey  had  no  responsibility  for  the  politics  of 
the  paper.  "  Except  in  agreeing  heartily  with  them," 

said  Geoffrey.     "  Then  you  endorse "  began  Mr. 

Riley.  "  Everything,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I  have  no 
more  to  say."  "  Thank  God,"  said  Geoffrey.  He  felt 
delightfully  pugnacious. 

They  went  off  haughtily  and  he  enjoyed  lounging 
there  and  gazing  after  them  superciliously.  He  knew 
it  was  a  poor  sort  of  triumph,  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  whatever  his  theories  of  peace  might  be  he  had 
the  quarrelsome  strain  in  him.  He  had  been  con- 
siderably less  than  gentle,  something  less  than  wise, 
but  at  least  he  had  been  loyal.  Men  of  the  Bonsor 
breed  often  gave  him  the  chance  to  detach  himself 
from  the  Herald  politics,  and  they  would  hint  at  sym- 
pathies with  his  difficult  position.  He  would  have 
none  of  it  and  espoused  almost  any  opinion  of  a  col- 
league if  it  was  subjected  to  unmannerly  attack.  Of 
course  he  agreed  generally,  though  he  had  never  pre- 
tended to  believe  in  the  plenary  inspiration  of  the 
Herald. 


132  TRUE  LOVE 

He  sipped  again  and  stretched  his  legs.  It  was 
nearly  time  to  be  gone,  but  if  anybody  would  like  to 
come  and  quarrel  with  him  now  was  the  time.  He 
positively  began  to  look  round  upon  the  groups  trucu- 
lently; he  burlesqued  his  own  mood.  And  then,  sur- 
prisingly, Secretan  appeared;  it  was  unusual  to  see 
him  there,  and  Geoffrey  wondered  what  restless  spirit 
had  brought  him.  He  was  calm,  debonair ;  he  seemed 
infinitely  reassuring.  He  was  a  man  of  words,  per- 
haps, but  if  you  can  find  the  right  words  for  a  cata- 
clysm you  have  conquered  it.  The  right  words  now 
demanded  the  highest  courage,  which  is  the  highest 
wisdom. 

Secretan  sat  down  with  Geoffrey  and  gave  him 
something  of  the  hectic  gossip  of  the  occasion.  In- 
vited by  Geoffrey  to  drink  or  sip,  he  declined  cour- 
teously ;  he  was  a  man  who  did  not  neglect  the  forms. 
"  A  bit  of  comfort  before  the  heavens  fall  ? "  sug- 
gested Geoffrey,  and  then  Secretan  accepted,  very 
much  as  you  yield  smilingly  to  an  importunate  child. 
He  was  a  simple,  inscrutable  creature.  One  guessed 
at  him  and  idealized,  falling  short  or  wide  of  his 
ideals.  He  was  one  of  the  Samurai  who  would  meet 
you,  quaintly,  as  a  man  of  the  world. 

And  now,  it  seemed,  we  were  all  going  to  be  shat- 
tered and  reformed,  and  who  could  say  what  any  man 
would  be  when  he  emerged?  We  were  fragile  forms 
adventuring  among  iron  events.  And,  of  course, 
Secretan  was  not  calm;  he  was  never  calm,  and  the 
personal  dignity  was  no  pretense.  They  talked  of  the 
news  and  of  the  rumors.  They  even  touched  on  the 


THE  EVE  133 

Liberal  party;  a  Liberal  paper, ^e  it  never  so  liberal, 
cannot  quite  ignore  the  Liberal  party.  It  seemed  that 
this  was  gone,  disrupted,  shattered,  crying  in  the 
wilderness  or  rushing  to  shelter.  It  is  an  awful  un- 
certainty when  you  are  uncertain  of  yourself.  Party ! 
The  word  sounded  hollow  and  insincere,  something  to 
be  stripped  off.  And  yet  men  in  that  party  had  been 
holding  together  in  comradeship,  not  without  ideals, 
and  even  now,  like  all  wise  men,  they  rebelled  against 
the  fatalism  that  makes  for  war.  Geoffrey  and  Secre- 
tan  were  shy  of  the  particular  policies.  Secretan 
would  not  or  could  not  talk  of  them.  They  spoke  of 
the  old,  romantic  ideals  of  war,  of  aid  between  na- 
tions, of  the  new  concern  with  humanity,  of  the  slums 
of  Manchester  or  of  the  Russian  peasant.  But  you 
can't  stick  to  generalities  when  your  house  is  falling. 
Who  is  to  lead?  Who  is  to  resign?  Who  is  to 
emerge?  These  are  questions  for  the  politician. 
Above  all,  when  does  the  menace  become  the  irrev- 
ocable? When  will  the  first  blood  be  spilt? 

They  parted  and  Geoffrey  felt  it  to  be  indeed  a 
parting,  as  when  time  or  great  events  must  intervene 
before  the  next  meeting.  He  went  to  his  theater  and 
there  they  played  "  God  save  the  King,"  as  a  prelude 
to  the  evening's  futilities.  It  had  some  value;  it 
touched  the  emotions  if  it  did  not  efface  the  critical 
spirit.  The  king  was  not  precisely  the  symbol  that 
Geoffrey  would  have  chosen,  but,  revolting  as  he  did 
against  the  event,  the  sense  of  nationality  glowed  and 
waxed.  And  then  they  settled  down  to  the  foolish 
comedy  and  laughter  rang  false.  It  was  all  a  sham 


134  TRUE  LOVE 

and  extraordinarily  like  the  old  reality,  the  old  bore- 
dom. And  how  happy  those  old  dull  evenings  seemed 
now !  At  such  a  time  as  this  a  man  begins  to  find  out 
things  about  himself  and,  if  he  be  sincere,  he  may  go 
far  in  discovery.  Geoffrey  had  never  conceived  him- 
self as  the  natural  adventurer,  and  now  he  perceived 
that  dreads  and  even  mere  timidities  were  crowding 
upon  him.  Decision  and  action  were  to  be  forced 
upon  his  indolence,  and  to  the  weakness  of  his  flesh 
might  come  the  fiery  trial. 

The  wretched  play  did  not  hold  his  attention,  but 
was  making  the  audience  laugh  and  more  than  half 
forget  the  great  preoccupation.  They  felt  a  little 
ashamed  of  themselves,  and  in  the  interval  assured  one 
another  that  in  these  times  distraction  was  the  thing. 
Geoffrey  could  stand  no  more  and  went  back  to  the 
office,  which  was  mightily  excited.  Already  they  were 
short-handed,  for  the  Territorials  were  called  up ;  the 
place  buzzed  with  rumors  and  news.  And  here  were 
men  trying  to  be  honest  with  themselves,  to  get  some 
sort  of  definition  into  their  position,  to  repel  the  coun- 
sels of  timidity  or  mere  prudence.  They  had  to 
reconstruct  their  policy  in  the  light  of  tremendous 
events ;  to  accept  the  present  and  be  loyal  to  the  past ; 
to  be  wise  under  the  burden  of  reproach.  The  old 
tunes  and  cries  were  in  their  ears,  the  old  tradition  of 
chivalry  was  in  their  blood  while  they  made  the  last 
struggle  for  peace.  Geoffrey,  away  from  the  center 
of  things,  could  only  guess  at  what  went  on  in  the 
inner  councils.  He  was  conscious  of  deep  sympathy 
with  Lindsay,  confronted  with  the  greatest  and  most 


THE  EVE  135 

distracting  of  events  at  a  time  when  men  of  a  normal 
vigor  are  ready  for  repose ;  but  that  indomitable  spirit 
had  yet  work  to  do  and  would  not  shrink  from  it. 
And,  indeed,  Lindsay  was  worthy  of  the  devotion  of 
any  practical  idealist.  All  his  life  he  had  declined 
the  invitations  to  do  the  comfortable  thing,  to  range 
himself  with  his  class,  to  make  the  long  leader  of  the 
Herald  the  greatest  common  measure  of  Manchester 
or  of  the  Empire.  Now  his  enemies  pointed  at  him 
and  talked  of  retribution  and  Nemesis.  He  had  had 
difficulties  before,  but  here,  it  seemed,  was  an  over- 
whelming one.  Even  when  national  disaster  threatens, 
you  may  squeeze  out  a  little  malice. 

Geoffrey  encountered  Attar  and  got  the  latest  bul- 
letin. Attar  was  the  calm  man  immensely  perturbed. 
"  God  guide  us,"  he  said ;  "  we're  at  a  point  where  a 
hideous  mistake  might  be  made.  We  can't  oppose  a 
national  war,  a  war  for  existence." 

"It's  come  to  that?" 

"  We  shall  declare  war  within  the  next  twenty-four 
hours." 

"  What  is  national  existence  ?  "  said  Geoffrey.  "  At 
a  time  like  this,  I  realize  that  I've  never  thought 
clearly  about  these  things.  Suppose  that  the  Germans 
are  altogether  more  efficient  in  war  than  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  conquer  us  all  in  three  months.  It's 
a  conspicuous  humiliation,  of  course.  I  suppose  I 
should  be  miserable.  Should  I  be  any  the  worse  for 
it?" 

"  Oh,  be  damned !  "  said  Attar.  "  The  art  galleries 
still  open  on  Sundays — an  improved  system  of  heat- 


136  TRUE  LOVE 

ing.  You're  the  man  I'm  afraid  of.  You'd  let  us 
down." 

"  I  don't  say  I  wouldn't  die  to  prevent  it,"  said 
Geoffrey,  "  but  I  want  to  clear  my  mind.  I  want  to 
be  honest.  Why  shouldn't  you  let  people  see  your 
mind  working?  Why  bother  about  consistency?  A 
newspaper  becomes  an  immense  fagade." 

"  It's  no  time  for  ingenious  talk,"  said  Attar  im- 
patiently. "  If  you  can't  get  right  now  on  feeling 
you're  no  good."  He  broke  away,  but  after  a  few 
steps  down  the  corridor  he  came  back.  "  Don't  think 
I'm  not  loyal  to  Lindsay  and  the  paper,"  he  said. 
"  We've  done  all  we  can.  We've  been  wise  according 
to  our  lights.  Here's  a  sudden  illumination  and  we're 
on  the  edge  of  the  bottomless  pit.  It's  no  use  saying 
it  oughtn't  to  be  there." 

"  If  we  are  wrong  now  we  can't  remain  wrong," 
said  Geoffrey. 

"Why  not?" 

"  As  you  say,  Attar,  you  are  loyal.  Then  you  must 
have  some  faith  in  the  reason  and  conscience — yes, 
and  the  feeling  of  the  men  here.  They're  not  fools." 

"  I  agree.  But  if  you  take  a  wrong  road  and  per- 
sist in  it  ever  so  little,  the  mischief's  done.  An  awful 
mistake  is  possible.  I'm  wretched  to-night,  Arden. 
I  can  do  nothing." 

He  was  soon  to  be  reassured,  but  these  were  hard 
days  for  all  who  could  only  wait  and  hope.  Geoffrey 
went  home  and  found  Mary  waiting  for  him  as  he 
knew  he  should.  He  realized,  as  he  approached  the 
house,  that  he  shrank  from  the  discussion  with  her; 


THE  EVE  137 

he  had  a  dim  prescience  of  the  line  it  would  take. 
And  Mary  was  excited  and  uncompromising.  War 
was  a  monstrous  wickedness,  an  evil  to  be  resisted  on 
all  occasions  and  at  all  costs.  Geoffrey  in  these  days 
— and  in  the  months  and  years — was  to  know  the  un- 
happiness  of  perpetual  and  alternative  opposition.  It 
seemed  that  the  world  was  divided  into  the  warlike 
and  the  pacific,  and  there  was  no  room  for  those  of 
the  middle  way.  They  seemed  to  be  weak  even  while 
they  held  strongly  to  what  they  could  perceive  of 
reason  and  justice.  His  talk  with  Mary  seemed  to  be 
the  converse  of  that  with  Attar,  who  certainly  was  no 
fire-eater.  Mary  was  startled  to  perceive  in  Geoffrey 
a  change,  a  difference;  if  there  was  not  yet  a  rift 
between  them  they  began  to  see  where  the  rift  would 
be.  She  became  quieter  and  she  watched  him 
anxiously. 

"  It  must  come,"  he  said. 

And  there  burst  from  her  a  shrillness  of  protest;  it 
was  on  a  note  that  he  hardly  knew  in  her;  it  was 
lament  and  reproach  and  the  despair  of  incitement. 

"  We  must  defend  our  country,"  he  said. 

"  It's  not  attacked." 

"  We  must  defend  Belgium — France." 

She  stopped  to  consider  this.  Any  generosity  of 
idealism  appealed  to  her.  "We  shall  be  tricked  into 
this  war  by  words,"  she  said. 

"  It's  hard  things  that  are  happening." 

"  You  all  want  it.  You  want  war,"  she  cried  rashly. 
He  did  not  reply  to  that  except  to  say,  "  What  should 
we  do?" 


138  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  to  do  about  these  words  and 
documents.  I  can  tell  you  the  spirit  you  want.  It's 
the  spirit  of  Christ.  I  hear  no  word  of  Christ.  The 
churches  are  very  busy  but  they've  forgotten  about 
Christ." 

"  Mention  a  practical  point,"  he  said  wearily.  And 
she  proposed  that  the  king  and  his  ministers  should 
"  go  right  across  to  Berlin,"  and  see  the  Kaiser  and 
the  others  and  settle  it.  He  objected  that  they  would 
all  be  taken  prisoners  immediately,  but  she  waived  that 
aside  impatiently  and  developed  a  kind  of  mad  logic 
in  the  scheme.  "  It  has  never  been  tried,"  she  said. 
"  We  are  all  human  and  you  won't  trust  humanity. 
It  would  be  noble  and  nothing  could  resist  it.  You 
trust  to  documents  and  despatches  and  dried-up  old 
diplomatists,  not  in  God,  not  in  yourselves  even.  You 
go  to  war  according  to  the  precedents.  Everybody  is 
horrified  at  war  and  you  go  to  war.  Are  there  ten 
thousand  people  in  Germany  who  want  war?  You 
know  there  are  not." 

"  I  agree  with  a  good  deal  of  what  you  say,"  said 
Geoffrey.  "  As  to  the  king  and  the  rest  of  'em  going 
to  Germany,  I  haven't  the  slightest  objection,  but  it 
won't  be  done.  You  have  to  consider  what  can  and 
what  can't  be  done."  He  cited  the  famous  visit  of 
John  Bright  and  the  Quakers  to  Russia. 

"  No  doubt  I'm  a  fool,"  said  Mary,  "  and  the  men 
who  rule  the  world  are  very  wise.  They  talk  to  the 
people  about  the  Fatherland  and  the  Nation,  and  they 
betray  them.  They  are  only  bandits  themselves. 
They  lead  simple  men  to  slaughter.  It's  easy  to  make 


THE  EVE  139 

a  plausible  case  for  war.  You^can  argue  me  down 
but  I'm  right.  If  I'm  not,  the  churches  and  chapels 
should  all  shut  up.  How  can  they  pretend  that 
Christ  would  agree  ?  " 

"  We've  rationalized  Christ,"  said  Geoffrey.  He 
advanced  a  tepid,  dispirited  argument  about  taking  the 
world  as  you  found  it.  He  was  tired  and  hadn't  the 
energy  to  put  his  case.  She  harped  on  Christ,  she 
thundered  Christ  at  him.  "  I'm  not  a  Christian  in 
any  literal  sense,"  he  said,  "  and  I  didn't  know  you 
were.  I  don't  think  Christ  covers  the  ground.  We 
may  be  quite  wrong  in  going  into  this  war,  but  war 
may  be  righteous.  You  think  not.  I  try  to  get  at  your 
point  of  view  and  I  can  nearly  do  it.  But  not  quite. 
There's  a  hard  bit  of  common  sense  in  me  that  stops 
me.  I  suppose  it's  that  I  accept  this  world  more  than 
you  do.  I'm  of  this  world.  There  are  things  that  I 
would  fight  for.  Of  course,  I  mistrust  all  these  diplo- 
matists; I  hate  war,  it's  a  last  resort."  He  got  up 
from  his  chair.  "  Let's  go  to  bed,  Mary." 

"  You've  not  had  your  supper.  I'll  fetch  it."  She 
returned  directly  with  a  tray,  and  as  she  entered  the 
room  she  said  resentfully :  "  You  meant  that  I  was 
to  go  to  bed." 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  Are  you  going  to  rail  at  me  as  I 
eat  my  supper?  Is  it  for  your  own  pleasure  or  my 
advantage?  I'm  tired,  I'm  sick  at  heart.  I  want  you 
to  leave  me  alone." 

"  It's  not  fair  of  you,"  she  cried.  "  You  know  it's 
immensely  important.  Yes,  here  and  now,  between 
you  and  me.  You're  cowardly.  If  you  felt  as  I  do— 


140  TRUE  LOVE 

on  either  side,  I  mean — you  couldn't  rest ;  you  couldn't 
just  eat  your  supper  and  go  to  bed.  You  can't  scorn 
me.  I'm  not  absurd.  I'll  listen  to  you.  I  want  you 
to  say  wise,  illuminating  things.  I'll  listen  humbly. 
I  can't  bear  that  you  should  push  me  aside  as  of  no 
account.  If  I  go  to  bed  now  I  shall  lie  there  thinking 
of  you.  I  shall  think  of  you  as  unfair ;  yes,  and  rather 
stupid,  Geoffrey.  I  shall  feel  that  you  are  unworthy. 
It  isn't  the  war.  I  can  bear  the  war  if  it  has  to  be. 
Millions  of  people — innocent  people — being  killed.  I 
could  bear  that.  I  suppose  so.  But  it's  you  and  me." 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I'm  conscious  of  wanting  to 
evade  you.  I'm  racked  with  doubts,  I  can't  see  any- 
thing clearly."  He  paused  and  drew  a  chair  up  to  the 
table.  "  I  shall  be  better  when  I've  had  my  supper," 
he  said ;  "  I  think  that'll  put  heart  into  me.  Just  wait 
a  few  minutes." 

"  It's  a  poor,  cold  supper,"  she  said ;  "  I  couldn't 
be  bothered  with  it  to-night." 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  I  had  dinner  at  the  Mid- 
land." 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  home  ?  " 

"  I  was  late." 

"  You  wanted  to  avoid  me." 

"  Now,  now " 

"  You  did." 

"  Mary,  I  shall  avoid  you  whenever  I  please.  It 
won't  be  often  and  it  wasn't  so  to-night." 

Presently  she  said:  "Will  you  have  some  claret?" 

"  That  might  help." 

"Help?" 


THE  EVE  141 

"  Help  me  to  recover  tone." 

She  poured  out  a  glass  and  he  gulped  with  satis- 
faction. She  began  to  laugh,  she  continued  almost 
hysterically. 

"What  is  it?  "he  said. 

"  It's  so  ridiculous  to  see  you  sitting  there  eating 
and  drinking  and  gathering  strength  to  annihilate 
me." 

"  I've  no  idea  of  annihilating  you." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  have,"  she  said  crossly ;  "  you 
ought  to  be  intensely  anxious  to  show  that  you're  right 
and  I'm  wrong.  You  just  want  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"  Take  the  simple  issue,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Are  we 
to  let  Germany  trample  over  Belgium  and  France  and 
possess  them  ?  " 

"  We  are  to  do  what  Christ  would.  Do  you  doubt 
what  that  would  be  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  thinking  of  that  during 
these  days.  I've  wished  that  I  was  simply  a  Chris- 
tian or  simply  a  fire-eater.  It's  easy  for  you,  Mary. 
It's  easy  for  these  blatant  patriots  who  are  shouting 
for  war." 

"  Easy  to  decide,  yes.  Easy  to  live  it  out?  I  don't 
know.  Geoffrey,  you  wouldn't  fight?  You  wouldn't 
kill  people?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Shoot  them  ?  Run  swords  into  them  and  see  them 
die.  Don't  you  see  now?  Think  of  it.  Isn't  that 
convincing?  You  see  how  wicked  it  is.  It  can't  be 
done." 

"  It  would  be  horrible.  I  should  be  qualmish,  of 


142  TRUE  LOVE 

course.  But  we  come  to  it.  We  don't  bring  death 
into  the  world.  Torn  flesh,  a  little  blood " 

"  But  it's  the  spirit.  You  kill  the  spirit.  They  die 
reproaching  you." 

"  This  line  won't  do,  Mary.  Some  of  the  finest 
spirits  in  the  world  have  been  soldiers." 

"  And  repented." 

"How?" 

"  There's  Tolstoy " 

"  Too  much  of  Tolstoy,"  he  said.  And  then  he  con- 
tinued :  "  What  impressed  me  in  War  and  Peace  was 
Tolstoy's  conception  of  the  great  masses  of  men  mov- 
ing inevitably  while  little  Napoleons  and  Kaisers  gave 
orders  and  thought  they  were  doing  everything.  And 
now  it's  the  Chancellors  and  the  Sir  Edward  Greys 
making  up  their  minds  in  a  void.  They're  dealing 
with  forces  that  they  can't  hold  back." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  but  we've  each  got  a  soul. 
I  can  bear  it  if  we're  crushed  by  fate,  but  I  must  be 
right  and  you  must  be  wrong." 

"  My  soul  is  not  yours,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  that  I  must  seem  very  arrogant,"  she  said. 
"  I  won't  be  always  at  you  like  a  nagging  wife.  I  see 
us  falling  apart — farther  and  farther  apart.  And 
there's  so  much  to  bear." 

"  These  masses,"  he  said,  "  these  blind  masses  mov- 
ing against  one  another — it  seems  very  stupid,  it  lacks 
reason;  and  yet  one  or  the  other  may  be  broadly, 
roughly  right.  Good  enough  to  die  for." 

Her  protests  were  dwindling.  She  sank  to  a 
troubled  meditation.  He  watched  her,  hoping  that  it 


THE  EVE  143 

was  over  for  this  night.  She  said :  "  I  think  if  you 
were  to  die  for  what  you  thought  right,  I  could  bear 
it  very  well." 

It  was  a  noble  concession.  And  they  talked  quietly 
for  a  while  of  affairs  at  the  office.  It  was  to  him  like 
a  microcosm  of  the  great  troubled  world,  for  there  too 
he  seemed  to  be  groping  amid  loyalties  and  doubts. 
"  With  all  our  faults  we  stand  for  something  big,"  he 
said,  and  she  knew  that  he  meant  England  now.  She 
could  respond  to  the  old  idea  of  dying  for  one's  coun- 
try, to  the  old  songs  and  the  old  cries.  She  had  ceased 
for  the  time  to  struggle,  but  in  her  heart  she  knew 
that  she  could  never  acquiesce. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  WAR'S  HERE 

IT  was  a  whim  that  made  Geoffrey  choose  a  German 
restaurant  that  night  of  all  the  nights,  but  he  was  not 
the  only  Englishman  who  did  so.  He  had  telephoned 
to  Mary  that  he  should  not  come  home  to  dinner,  and 
while  he  spoke  to  her  he  was  conscious  that  there  was 
no  compelling  reason  why  he  should  not ;  nothing  be- 
yond an  extreme  restlessness  and,  as  he  realized  when 
he  heard  the  telephone's  diminuendo  of  her  patient 
voice,  a  reluctance  to  face  her  again.  She  asked  for 
news,  and  he  told  her  that  Germany  was  invading 
Belgium  and  that  in  a  few  hours  we  should  be  at  war. 
He  waited  for  her  comment,  half-expecting  the  em- 
phatic and  indignant,  but  there  was  a  long  pause  and 
he  thought  she  must  have  gone  away  till  he  heard  a 
gentle  "  Good-night,  Geoffrey,"  which  made  him  wish 
he  had  gone  home  to  her.  The  wish  was  transient, 
for,  even  now,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  his  going. 
He  had  a  vague  expectation  that  he  might  be  wanted, 
and  he  found  himself  continually  looking  for  a  note  or 
hearkening  for  a  message.  There  was  both  bitterness 
and  humility  in  the  feeling  or  the  knowledge — he  was 
not  sure  which  it  was — that  his  work  did  not  matter 
now.  He  was  stranded  and  forgotten;  some  routine 

144 


THE  WAR'S  HERE  145 

of  work  went  on,  but  it  was  like  ^a  clacking  loom  with- 
out a  warp  in  it. 

He  went  out  into  the  streets  and,  wanting  food,  he 
soon  took  refuge  from  their  intolerable  clamor  in  a 
little  familiar  room  which  seemed  already  to  have  be- 
come curious  and  sinister.  Some  of  those  he  had 
seen  swigging  beer  there,  were  on  their  way  to  Ger- 
many, and  the  waiter,  too,  had  gone.  Behind  the  bar 
the  proprietor,  with  a  sad  and  civil  air,  saluted  his 
customers  and  passed  out  the  dishes;  his  wife  waited 
upon  them  with  nervous  haste.  The  place  was  half 
empty,  and  Geoffrey  found  what  was  nearly  a  quiet 
corner,  but  the  little  less  turned  out  to  be  whole  worlds 
away.  Across  the  gangway  and  a  little  in  front  of 
him,  three  people  were  drinking  at  a  table,  and  it 
seemed  that  interest  in  his  advent  had  momentarily 
silenced  them.  They  soon  renewed  their  conversa- 
tion, which,  indeed,  was  very  much  a  monologue  by 
the  man  facing  him.  He  was  a  big,  blatant  fellow 
of  sanguine  complexion,  one  of  those  who  talk  at 
people  rather  than  to  them,  and  he  soon  attempted  to 
bring  Geoffrey  within  his  sphere  of  influence.  His 
companions  were  a  woman,  who  laughed  weakly,  mad- 
deningly, at  everything,  and  a  little  man  with  a  de- 
pressed back,  a  figure  of  morose  submission. 

"  I've  always  stood  up  for  the  Germans,"  bellowed 
the  big  man.  "  Here,  mister,  how  much  of  your  beer 
have  I  drunk — first  and  last  ?  "  He  waved  an  empty 
mug  and  held  it  out  for  replenishment.  The  pro- 
prietor's eyes  were  far  away ;  he  might  have  been  con- 
sidering the  question.  He  was  a  spare,  dark  man  of 


146  TRUE  LOVE 

middle  age,  vaguely  foreign,  but  not  typically  German. 
His  patient,  slightly  ironical  glance  fell  on  the  big 
man. 

"  Put  it  in  gallons,  mister."  And  then,  with  an  air 
of  triumph,  "  He  can't  calc'late  it." 

The  fresh  beer  was  brought  and  the  big  man  rose 
solemnly,  mug  in  hand.  Ceremoniously  he  raised  the 
lid.  "  Gentlemen  both,"  he  said — Geoffrey  was  fairly 
in  it  now — "  I'll  ask  you  to  join  me  in  drinking  my 
girl's  health.  I'm  off  for  the  front  to-night,  aren't  I, 
Amy?"  The  woman  laughed  again  and  got  out  a 
handkerchief  to  mop  her  eyes;  it  crossed  Geoffrey's 
mind  that  to  him  she  might  possibly  be  attractive.  The 
little  man  rose  obediently.  Geoffrey  felt  a  fool,  but 
he  could  do  no  less.  Catching  the  woman's  eye,  he 
bowed  and  put  his  mug  to  his  lips.  She  inclined  her 
head  graciously  and  not  without  dignity. 

The  big  man  drained  his  pot,  which,  in  the  circum- 
stances, was  a  considerable  feat.  Leaning  over  the 
table  he  raised  it  with  dramatic  gesture  and  dashed  it 
to  the  floor.  There  was  a  startled  silence  in  the  room. 
The  proprietor  put  down  a  dish  that  he  was  holding 
and  stood  stern  and  ready.  The  big  man  enjoyed  the 
sensation  to  the  full.  He  dropped  his  voice  now,  as 
the  cunning  orator  does :  "  Not  another  drop  o'  Ger- 
man beer  till  I  drink  it  at — Berlin."  He  shouted  the 
last  word  and  sat  down. 

Geoffrey  saw  the  proprietor  exchange  glances  with 
his  wife,  and  she  came  immediately  with  cloth  and 
dish  to  clear  up  the  mess.  With  a  large,  affable  mag- 
nanimity the  big  man  said :  "  Sorry  to  give  you  the 


THE  WAR'S  HERE  147 

trouble,  ma'am."  A  great,  ifktemporary,  calm  had 
come  upon  him  and  he  addressed  the  little  man  collo- 
quially :  "  Yes,  as  I  was  sayin',  y'aven't  the  physique. 
I  dare  say  y'd  just  pass.  I  say  nothin'  about  y'r  spirit 
Talks  o'  'listin'  " — he  addressed  Geoffrey — "  and  quite 
right,  too.  You'll  all  'ave  to.  T's  not  'alf  a  job,  this. 
They've  no  Bismarck  now  an'  they've  no  Von  Molkey, 
but  they're  an  'ot  lot  all  the  same." 

He  cast  a  critical  eye  on  the  little  man.  "  Not  much 
to  'it,"  he  said,  and  winked  at  Geoffrey.  The  woman 
laughed  shrilly  and,  looking  at  Geoffrey,  checked  her- 
self. "  Want  o'  physique,"  said  the  big  man,  squaring 
his  shoulders ;  "  it's  to  be  'oped  you've  pluck."  With 
a  touch  of  ferocity  he  said :  "  Y'aren't  afraid  o'  the 
Germans?  'Ow'd  y'  like  a  bullet  in  y'r  mouth  or  a 
bit  o'  shell  in  y'r  belly? — beg  pardon,  stomach. — It's 
different  from  sitting  here  drinking  beer." 

And  then,  amazingly,  the  little  man  found  his 
tongue.  Beginning,  "  Oh !  you  talk  a  lot,"  he  struck  a 
high,  violent  note.  He  thumped  the  table,  he  poured 
out  verbiage  about  his  country,  he  swore  at  the  Ger- 
mans, and  defied  the  lightning  generally.  He  subsided 
suddenly  and  the  big  man,  turning  to  Geoffrey,  nodded 
and  winked.  "  He'll  do,"  he  said.  "  It's  on'y  a  ques- 
tion of  chest  measurement."  It  seemed  that  it  was 
his  turn  again,  and  that  the  little  man  had  queered  his 
pitch.  He  required  a  stimulant  and  called  out  in  a 
reasonable  voice :  "  Any  Bass  ? "  The  proprietor 
slightly  shook  his  head  and  the  big  man  got  up. 
"  Good  God !  "  he  said.  "  No  Bass !  We've  been  here 
too  long.  Come  on,  Amy ; "  and  then,  to  the  other, 


148  TRUE  LOVE 

"  Are  y'  comin'  ?  "  The  little  man  had  had  enough  of 
him  and  indicated  some  remainder  of  beer  as  a  cause 
for  delay.  The  other  looked  into  the  mug  and  laughed 
scornfully ;  the  woman  echoed  him.  "  Well — till  we 
meet  in  Berlin,  eh  ?  Or  p'raps  you'll  see  me  off  ?  It's 
10.45,  London  Road.  There'll  be  lots  there,  won't 
there,  Amy  ?  "  He  clapped  the  little  man  on  the  back, 
and  gave  Geoffrey  an  exaggerated  salute.  Then  he 
faced  the  proprietor,  who  returned  his  stare.  He 
threw  a  half-crown  on  the  counter,  "  Keep  the 
change,"  he  said,  and  swaggered  out,  the  woman  fol- 
lowing. It  was  a  meretricious  performance,  but  it  left 
them  feeling  rather  small. 

The  little  man  eyed  Geoffrey  sideways  with  a  sneer- 
ing expression.  They  understood  one  another,  but  the 
instinct  for  articulation  was  strong.  "  Lot  o'  swank," 
he  said.  Geoffrey  replied :  "  I  believe  it's  been  said 
that  a  bully  is  not  always  a  coward."  The  little  man 
pondered  over  this;  presently  he  got  up  and  stood 
before  Geoffrey.  "  Going  to  volunteer  yourself  ?  " 
he  said.  "  You're  young  enough." 

Geoffrey  was  startled.  He  said  that  he  had  hardly 
considered  it  yet,  and  when  the  man  sat  down  on  the 
other  side  of  his  table  he  felt  that  this  was  making 
unwarrantable  inroads  upon  his  privacy.  The  other 
leaned  over  and  said  confidentially :  "  D'y  feel  a  bit  of 
sinking  in  y'r  stomach  ?  '* 

"  Really "  Geoffrey  began.  But  the  little  man 

looked  appealingly  at  him  and  said,  "  I  do." 

He  did  not  look  heroic.  He  was  a  rather  meager 
and  yet  weedy  specimen  of  the  clerk  class,  with  a 


THE  WAR'S  HERE  149 

horrid  little  waxed  mustache,  it  may  have  been  the 
circumstances  of  his  confidences  that  gave  his  face  a 
furtive  expression,  yet  Geoffrey  was  aware  of  a  spirit- 
ual struggle. 

"  It's  been  sprung  on  us,  this,"  said  the  little  man. 
"  We  aren't  ready  for  it ;  men  like  me,  I  mean.  What 
are  we  going  to  do  ?  I  don't  fancy  myself  on  a  battle- 
field. Will  it  come  to  that?  Shall  we  be  expected — 
that  fellow  there  " — he  jerked  his  head  towards  the 
door — "  said  so." 

He  swallowed  several  times  as  he  waited  for  a  reply. 
Geoffrey  didn't  know  what  to  say  and  wasn't  sure  how 
far  to  abase  himself  with  this  fellow-creature  who 
wanted  something  better  than  platitudes.  Was  he  to 
assume  a  large  confidence,  to  encourage  the  valiant 
enterprise,  to  give  the  little  man  a  refined  version  of 
his  late  companion's  incitements?  This  would  be  to 
travel  far  on  a  road  to  which  he  was  not  yet  com- 
mitted. His  impulse  was  friendly,  but  he  could  hardly 
be  comforting.  "  We've  all  got  to  search  our  con- 
sciences a  bit,"  he  said. 

"  Search  our  consciences,"  repeated  the  little  man 
thoughtfully  and  he  nodded,  finding  some  help  or  ap- 
pearance of  help  in  the  phrase.  "  But  that  chap  " — 
and  his  references  to  the  big  man  had  always  a  touch 
of  resentment — "  he's  got  no  conscience.  He  just  goes 
off  with  a  burst." 

"  You  and  I  are  different,  perhaps,"  said  Geoffrey. 
And  then  he  added :  "  We're  thinking  men." 

It  was  a  gross  piece  of  flattery,  but  the  little  man 
accepted  it  with  dignity.  Perhaps  it  touched  an  un- 


150  TRUE  LOVE 

easy  spot,  for  he  said :  "  I  talked  like  a  fool  just  now." 

Geoffrey  said :  "  Of  course.    Before  him." 

"  That's  it." 

They  nodded  at  one  another  understandingly.  It 
seemed  to  bring  a  little  comfort,  and  the  little  man 
grasped  at  more  comfort :  "  P'raps  it'll  be  all  over  in 
a  week  or  two,"  he  said. 

Geoffrey  shook  his  head. 

"  Maybe  I'm  different  from  others,  but  I  don't 
know.  I've  no  right  to  ask  how  y'd  feel  y'rself ." 

He  was  not  an  adventurous  spirit.  He  wanted  to 
have  feelings  and  aspirations  in  common.  In  a  crowd 
he  would  have  shouted  or  run  with  the  rest,  perhaps 
have  died  safely  and  honorably  with  the  rest.  Here, 
his  manhood  had  a  quavering,  veritable  existence  of 
its  own,  but  he  looked  at  Geoffrey  appealingly. 

"  We're  all  very  much  alike,"  Geoffrey  said. 

"Afraid,  d'y  mean?" 

"  I  think  we're  afraid  of  being  afraid." 

He  knitted  his  brows  at  this,  and  Geoffrey  said, 
rather  testily,  "  Any  one  would  be  afraid  at  first. 
You've  got  to  learn  courage  like  anything  else."  And 
he  went  on  to  tell  of  an  old  colonel  he  knew  who  had 
been  through  the  Crimean  War,  and  had  laughed  to 
recall  how  scared  he  was  when  first  he  heard  the  guns 
thundering  about  him. 

"  He  came  out  all  right?"  said  the  little  man,  and 
Geoffrey  answered :  "  A  perfect  hero." 

This  was  pondered,  and  then  Geoffrey  was  discon- 
certed when  the  man  put  his  hand  over  his  face  and 
gasped  out,  "  The  'errors  of  the  battlefield !  "  It  was 


THE  WAR'S  HERE  151 

a  renouncement  of  these  shallow  comforts,  a  plea  for 
a  deeper  reassurance,  and  yet  Geoffrey  shrank  from 
it  as  from  something  melodramatic  and  insincere. 
Doubtless  the  poor  soul  had  some  vision  derived  from 
garish  descriptions  or  horrific  pictures  and  could  not 
fit  into  it  his  shrinking  self.  He  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, he  glanced  uneasily  at  the  German  proprietor, 
whose  eyes  were  still  far  away,  he  got  up  and  stood 
for  a  moment  hesitating.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I've 
taken  a  liberty — times  like  these." 

"  We're  in  the  same  boat,"  said  Geoffrey  kindly. 
The  man  looked  at  him  wistfully,  beset  still  with 
doubts.  "  Well,  good-night,"  he  said.  It  would  have 
been  a  depressed  exit,  but,  remembering  himself,  he 
swaggered  past  the  German,  who  said,  "  Good-night, 
sir,"  in  response  to  a  haughty  nod. 

Geoffrey  finished  his  meal  and  lit  his  cigarette.  He 
sat  there  scorning  these  insensate  furies  of  war,  con- 
temptuous of  those  who  saw  in  Germany  just  a  power 
for  evil,  a  nation  of  barbarous  aggressors.  He  was 
deeply  conscious  of  an  agony  of  doubt,  he  was  no  more 
master  of  himself  than  was  the  little  man  whose 
mentor  he  had  been  just  now.  And  it  seemed  to  him 
that,  as  a  spring  which  grows  into  a  great  river  might 
have  been  diverted  this  way  or  that,  he  hesitated  at 
the  source;  some  small  decision  might  be  swollen  by 
tributaries  to  greatness.  He  could  have  prayed  for 
light,  and  he  had  a  momentary  envy  of  those  who  had 
the  habit.  A  skeptical  recovery  brought  the  reflection 
that  those  who  pray  for  light  may  exalt  any  will-o'- 
the-wisp  as  the  true  illumination. 


152  TRUE  LOVE 

The  restaurant  emptied,  and  he  was  left  with  the 
proprietor  and  his  wife.  She  had  her  hat  on,  and  at 
a  whisper  from  her  husband  she  took  it  off  when  she 
came  to  serve  the  coffee.  Geoffrey  said  some  word  of 
apology  for  detaining  her  as  he  glanced  round  the 
empty  room.  She  shook  her  head  as  she  turned  away, 
and  he  perceived  that  she  was  agitated.  Her  hus- 
band handed  out  her  hat,  touched  her  on  the  shoulder, 
and  she  was  gone  immediately.  In  a  few  minutes 
Geoffrey  rose  and  approached  the  counter  to  pay  his 
bill.  "  I  fear,"  he  said,  "  that  madame "  he  hesi- 
tated, ending  with  "  these  are  bad  times." 

"  She  wanted  to  get  home  to  her  children,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Bad  times  for  you,  I  fear,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  I  shall  not  have  the  honor  of  serving  you  again — 
at  present.  We  are  closing  here.  I  am  over  the  mili- 
tary age,  but  I  am  a  German.  I  suppose  I  shall  soon  be 
in  prison." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Geoffrey.  Then  he  said,  "  Good 
luck  to  you,"  and  held  out  his  hand.  The  German 
looked  surprised  but  he  took  it  eagerly.  "  And  to  you, 
sir,"  he  said. 

"  A  speedy  peace,  I  hope,"  said  Geoffrey.  He  was 
going  when  the  man  arrested  him  with  "  It  will  not  be 
long." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Germany  is  very  powerful.    We  shall  soon  win." 

"  I'm  damned  if  you  will,"  said  Geoffrey.  And  as 
he  walked  back  to  the  office  he  reflected  that  this  was 
the  sort  of  trifle  that  determined  an  issue.  In  a  mo- 


THE  WAR'S  HERE  153 

ment  he  was  bellicose.  He  was^  ready  to  quarrel  or 
to  enlist  or  to  head  a  charge.  He  was  an  Englishman 
on  whose  dominions  the  sun  never  sets,  and  these  ar- 
rogant Germans  must  be  shown  their  place.  "  A  place 
in  the  sun,"  they  had  demanded,  and,  of  course,  we 
must  be  fair  to  them.  He  had  admired  that  fellow  in 
the  restaurant,  he  had  been  touched  by  the  wife.  And 
he  must  guard  against  these  silly  impulses  of  irritation 
and  offended  pride.  A  vast  amount  of  provoking  folly 
was  loosed  now,  and  he  must  try  to  hold  himself  aloof 
from  it,  to  concentrate  steadily  on  the  things  that  mat- 
tered. He  was  to  be  guided  by  reason  and  to  beware 
of  that  trap  for  reason — argument.  He  was  to  be 
wise  and  charitable  and  to  choose  the  nobler  part.  It 
is  easy  to  be  a  good  man  in  the  void. 

He  was  frequently  conscious  now  of  Mary's  sym- 
pathy or  Mary's  opposition,  and  sometimes  he  re- 
viewed the  events  of  the  day  in  order  to  select  those 
which  he  might  mention  to  her  with  more  or  less  of 
safety.  He  was  timid  and  anxious  to  avoid  discussion, 
while  she  was  ready  to  thresh  things  out  at  any  hour 
of  the  day,  to  go  over  the  old  ground,  to  break  into 
the  old  vehemencies.  He  told  himself  and  her  that  it 
was  useless  and  worse  than  useless  for  them  to  talk  of 
the  ethics  of  war  in  terms  of  emotion,  he  was  not  quite 
innocent  of  the  pose  of  reason  and  philosophy.  He 
would  combat  her  when  he  was  roused,  but  he  didn't 
want  to  be  roused;  sometimes,  rather  cunningly,  he 
would  make  concessions  of  no  great  value  to  placate 
her.  In  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  couldn't  be  faithful 
to  any  pact  with  Mary  against  the  world ;  that  he  ac- 


154  TRUE  LOVE 

cepted  the  world  or  this  phase  of  it  in  a  sense  im- 
possible to  her;  that  he  had  not  enthusiasm  or  con- 
viction for  the  extremes  of  pacific  idealism.  He  was 
a  critic,  not  a  rebel,  and  yet,  though  he  had  a  con- 
tempt for  the  pedants  who  would  have  it  that  criticism 
is  just  a  reference  to  criteria,  here  he  was  groping 
in  the  dark  with  mere  instincts  to  warn  him  of  hin- 
drance or  help.  He  had  never  thought  things  out. 
Why  had  he  never  thought  things  out? 

Sitting  late  with  Mary  over  breakfast,  he  thought 
he  might  tell  her  of  the  small  adventure  at  the  res- 
taurant. They  had  not  spoken  of  the  great  news,  for 
Great  Britain  had  declared  war,  and  she  was  glower- 
ing over  the  Herald  leader.  She  threw  the  paper 
down. 

"  So  it's  accepted,"  she  said.  "  You  agree.  It's  all 
right.  You're  all  comfortable  now." 

And,  indeed,  that  is  what  he  had  been  feeling. 
There  was — to  put  it  mildly — discomfort  enough  be- 
fore them,  but  here  was  the  Herald  ranged  loyally  on 
the  side  of  the  war,  and  it  was  impossible  to  deny  that 
this  made  life  easier.  Geoffrey  was  ready  to  maintain 
passionately  that  there  was  no  baseness  of  acquies- 
cence here.  They  had  fought  their  good  fight  against 
war ;  they  were  beaten,  and  now,  when  all  these  great 
forces  were  irrevocably  let  loose,  there  was  no  ques- 
tion of  their  side.  But  Mary  was  all  for  the  difficult 
way.  Gentle,  withdrawn,  remote,  she  was  always  at 
heart  a  furious  rebel.  And  now  she  pitched  away 
the  peccant  Herald  and  began  her  old  tirade.  It  went 
on  till  Geoffrey  said,  "  I'm  tired  of  Christ  and  Tol- 


THE  WAR'S  HERE  155 

stoy,"  when  she  stopped  suddenly  and  resentfully. 
They  sat  sullen  and  silent,  but  there  was  a  diversion; 
Milly  Warde  came  in. 

She  came,  bringing  an  honest,  vigorous  life  to  the 
fragilities  and  smashing  them  right  and  left.  It  was 
an  impulse  that  she  couldn't  resist.  She  had  come  to 
congratulate  Geoffrey  on  the  Herald  having  mended 
its  ways  and  come  over  to  the  national  side  at  last. 
They  had  been  wayward,  naughty  children,  it  ap- 
peared, and  now  had  decided  to  be  good.  So  pats 
and  kisses  for  them  and  all  was  well.  "  It's  been  hor- 
ribly uncomfortable  for  us,  you  know,"  she  said; 
"  why  did  you  go  on  like  that  ?  Of  course,  I  know 
it's  not  Geoffrey's  fault,  but  he  might  have  told  Mr. 
Lindsay.  The  sort  of  thing  people  were  saying,  I 
mean.  Have  you  any  Germans  on  the  staff,  really? 
It's  been  beastly  for  those  of  us  who  are  your  friends. 
Do  keep  all  right  now,  won't  you  ?  " 

She  rattled  on,  and  presently  became  aware  that 
there  wasn't  much  response.  Then  she  stopped  and 
looked  at  them.  "  Of  course,  I'm  a  great  silly,"  she 
said,  and  then,  "  There'll  be  some  point  in  being  a 
nurse  now." 

And  then  it  struck  Geoffrey  that  she  saw  rather 
farther  than  he  had  thought.  She  had  taken  things 
with  a  rush,  as  she  generally  did,  and  she  had  estab- 
lished her  position  without  qualification.  But  it  ap- 
peared that  she  was  watching  Mary,  to  whom  she 
spoke  suddenly :  "  Do  you  remember,  Mary,  how  you 
used  to  make  me  admire  Rossetti's  sonnet  ?  " 

It  was  Geoffrey  who  said,  "  Which  sonnet?  "  though 


156  TRUE  LOVE 

he  knew,  and  Milly  quoted  a  line  or  two.  "  On  the 
Refusal  of  Aid  between  Nations."  And  so  Mary  was 
involved  in  distinctions,  distinctions  between  then  and 
now,  the  letter  and  the  spirit,  the  aids  of  brotherhood 
and  the  positive  committal  to  violence  and  slaughter. 
And  they  trailed  off  to  a  desultory  discussion  on  the 
nations  and  the  deeper  common  measure  of  humanity. 
And  poor  Mary  became  weary  and  baffled. 

At  last  she  said  to  Geoffrey :  "  Let  it  be  romantic 
then.  Make  it  noble  in  your  own  way.  But  how  can 
you?  All  the  poor,  ignorant  people  taken  away  to  be 
killed!" 

Tamely  enough,  he  said :  "  It's  a  question  of  the 
alternative." 

And  the  hopelessness  of  continuing  the  discussion 
oppressed  them.  Milly  inquired  brightly  about  his 
visit  to  Grasmere,  and  wanted  to  know  how  all  these 
great  events  impressed  Miss  Drew.  She  had  quite  an 
intelligent  interest  in  the  impact  of  terrific  realities 
upon  one  accustomed  to  big  things  in  the  "  mimic  life." 
Geoffrey  was  not  disposed  to  consider  Miss  Drew  as 
one  of  a  race  apart.  "  Very  much  like  you  and  me," 
he  said,  and  repeated  variants  of  this.  When  Milly 
had  gone,  Geoffrey  said  to  Mary :  "  The  hearty  lass  is 
no  fool."  Mary  stared  at  him  and,  lacking  interest  or 
freshness,  did  not  reply. 


CHAPTER  XI 

RECRIMINATIONS 

"  IT'S  one  in  the  eye  for  us,  of  course,"  said  Attar, 
"  but  we  shall  get  over  it  all  right  now." 

He  sat  with  Geoffrey  and  Burke  in  the  tea-shop 
which  was  a  little  arid  and  desolate  on  this  late  after- 
noon of  summer.  They  drank  their  tea  gloomily,  but 
Burke  had  had  sufficient  interest  in  life  to  order  cur- 
rant tea-cake  and  Attar  was  particular  in  insisting 
upon  China  tea.  They  were  of  the  Herald,  but  not 
in  its  inner  council,  and  while  loyalty  compelled  them 
to  present  an  implacable  front  to  the  outsider,  they 
could  criticize  and  even  blaspheme  among  them- 
selves. 

"  We  shall  never  hear  the  last  of  it,"  said  Burke. 

"Of  what?"  said  Attar. 

"  Of  those  damned  leaders." 

"  After  all,"  Geoffrey  said,  "  it  was  only  half  a 
dozen  sentences  in  them." 

"  The  blockheads  that  we  are  dealing  with,"  said 
Attar,  "  never  carry  away  more  than  two  sen- 
tences." 

"  And  that's  true,"  said  Burke.  He  ordered  another 
tea-cake.  "  I  don't  care." 

"  We've  the  knack  of  rubbing  people  the  wrong 
157 


158  TRUE  LOVE 

way,"  said  Attar.  "  I  grant  that  we're  commonly  in 
the  right,  but  we  always  rile  'em  with  those  half- 
dozen  sentences." 

"  What  good  are  you  if  you're  always  thinking  of 
their  feelings  ?  "  said  Geoffrey. 

"  And  that's  true,"  said  Burke. 

"  Well,  Tim,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  what  are  we  all  going 
to  do?  All  this  cry  of  war  makes  me  feel  what  a 
peaceful  man  I  am.  I'm  not  an  adventurer.  I  begin 
to  see  how  delightful  it  is  to  be  a  drudge.  I  want  to 
go  on  quietly  writing  plays  and  novels — just  imagin- 
ing nice  little  domestic  upsets  and  being  terrifically 
tragic  about  them,  or  else  comic.  And  now  comes 
this  frightful  distraction.  Can  I  just  stand  aside? 
Can  I  say  I  won't  fight  and  that  we're  all  brothers? 
What  if  we  all  did  that?  I'm  being  obvious,  I  know. 
I  want  to  get  the  obvious  right.  I  distrust  all  I  hear 
about  Germany  and  Germany's  designs.  I  take  Great 
Britain's  impeccability  with  a  grain  of  salt.  But — 
damn  it,  man — they've  got  going  now  and  what'll 
happen  if  they  walk  over  us  all?  When  the  world's 
reshaping  are  we  to  boggle  over  a  few  million  lives? 
If  we  are  to  be  philanthropists  let's  conceive  on  the 
grand  scale.  Why !  What  are  lives  ?  If  you're  going 
to  build  a  Forth  Bridge  it'll  kill  hundreds.  A  railway 
in  Africa  means  thousands  of  lives  in  its  construction. 
What  sort  of  a  world  would  you  have?  Human  life ! 
Let's  be  big." 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  Burke ;  "  you've  thought  it  all 
out." 

"  I've  never  thought  of  it  till  now  that  I  begin  to 


RECRIMINATIONS  159 

speak,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I  couldt^t  start  thinking.  I'm 
trying  to  think  now." 

"  Your  psychology  is  interesting,"  said  Attar. 

"  Don't  dry  him  up,"  said  Burke. 

And  Geoffrey  would  not  be  dried  up.  "  What  I 
want,"  he  said,  "  is  a  simple  issue,  and,  begad,  I  hardly 
care  what  it  is.  I've  tried  to  imagine  myself  a  primi- 
tive Christian  telling  these  folk  to  put  up  their  swords 
— acquiescing  with  an  angelic  smile  when  they 
trampled  over  me.  Passive  resistance !  Conscientious 
objection!  Why  shouldn't  the  saints  among  us  make 
a  stand  ?  And,  mind  you,  Attar,  I  despise  a  man  who 
isn't  a  saint.  That  is  to  say,  I  despise  him  if,  con- 
sciously, he  says,  '  That  man's  better  than  I  and  I 
could  be  like  that/  If  he's  swifter  or  stronger  than  I, 
I'll  cheer  him  on  and  do  the  best  I  can,  humbly,  with 
what  I  have  of  swiftness  and  strength.  D'you  see?" 

"  Partly,"  said  Attar. 

"  Well,  I've,  so  to  say,  gone  up  and  looked  at  this 
holy,  non-resistance  stunt  and  I  can't  stand  it.  It's 
not  for  me.  I  want  to  know  what  it  means.  And  I'm 
told  that  Tolstoy  says  you  mustn't  lay  your  hands  on 
a  drunken  man  who  would  kill  a  child.  Then  Tol- 
stoy's a  fool.  One  of  the  greatest  of  men,  but  a  fool. 
I  rejoice  that  there  are  such  fools.  I  want  a  world  of 
all  sorts.  I  want  extremes  though  I'm  moderate  my- 
self." 

"  D'you  want  bloody  murderers  in  it  too  ? "  said 
Burke. 

"  I  suppose  so.    It  seems  better  fun." 

"  And  how,"  said  Attar,,  "  if  your  reason  told  you 


160  TRUE  LOVE 

that  in  this  quarrel  with  Germany  we  were  in  the 
wrong  ?  " 

"  I'm  as  English  as  they're  made,"  said  Geoffrey. 
"  Back  of  it  all  there's  that  conviction  that  we're 
sound.  I  hate  their  Imperial  rot.  Our  rhetoric  about 
it  is  nauseating.  But — I'd  only  whisper  it  among 
friends — we're  a  bit  better  than  the  Germans.  Not 
much.  We've  all  their  vices  in  a  minor  degree.  It's 
enough  to  count.  I'm  thinking  it  might  be  enough  to 
die  for  if  you're  disposed  that  way." 

"  What's  the  practical  issue  in  your  case  ? "  said 
Attar. 

"  Bother  your  practical  issues.  I'm  just  having  a 
good  jaw." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Burke  ?  "  said  Attar. 

"  I've  sent  in  my  name  to  the  Admiralty." 

"  Offering  to  take  on  the  Grand  Fleet  ?  "  said  Attar. 

"  I'm  an  engineer,  you  know.  They  may  want 
us." 

"  Yes,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  I  talk  and  talk  and  Burke 
does  something.  I've  kept  telling  myself  that  I 
mustn't  let  my  feelings  carry  me  away.  Why !  When 
I  hear  a  distant  band  I  begin  to  tremble — to  tingle,  I 
mean.  And  then  it  comes  nearer  and  I  see  a  ram- 
shackle lot  of  fellows  marching  behind  it.  Rabbits! 
They'll  go  down  before  Germany  like  rabbits,  I  dare 
say.  And  I  feel  I  ought  to  be  with  them.  What  right 
have  I  to  luxuriate  in  sentimental  feelings  about  these 
men?  I've  been  skeptical  and  aloof  and  felt  it  was 
very  fine  of  the  poor  devils.  I've  had  sentimental  tears 
in  my  eyes,  but  deep  down  I've  been  wondering  what 


RECRIMINATIONS  161 

I'm  going  to  do.  The  old  Hertdd  would  get  on  well 
enough  without  me." 

Attar  said :  "  One  seems  to  have  built  up  a  sort  of 
individual  existence,  and  now — you're  to  become  one 
of  a  roaring  crowd.  And  then  you're  to  be  a  number, 
a  uniform.  Between  friends — as  you  say,  Arden— 
I've  all  sorts  of  disputing  impulses.  Some  are  des- 
picable enough.  Fighting  is  for  soldiers,  for  pros. 
Let  the  peasants  go.  But  there's  an  old  tag  keeps  com- 
ing into  my  head." 

"What's  that?" 

"Noblesse  oblige.  Somehow  I  don't  like  ranking 
myself  with  the  bourgeoisie." 

"  It's  going  to  be  all  together  this  time,"  said  Burke. 

And  then  Imalian  dropped  in  and  joined  them.  He 
had  a  parcel  under  his  arm,  and  Attar  demanded  that 
he  should  show  it.  Imalian  demurred,  but  produced 
his  fine  edition  deprecatingly.  "  I  shall  go  on  fiddling 
while  Rome  burns,"  he  said.  He  resented  the  war  as  a 
horrid  piece  of  barbarism,  a  very  serious  annoyance 
indeed.  This  was  not  all,  of  course;  you  suspected 
him  of  deep  racial  sympathies,  of  ideals  that  he  would 
not  share  with  you.  Here,  with  a  sad  playfulness,  he 
posed  as  the  typical  quiet  citizen  who  did  not  wish 
harm  to  anybody,  only  demanding — if  so  moderate  an 
appeal  might  be  called  a  demand — a  place  where  he 
and  other  peace-loving  people  might  dwell  unmolested. 
And,  indeed,  something  of  this  is  at  the  heart  of 
many  of  us;  a  quiet  country  for  quiet  people  is 
wanted. 

An  exclamation  from  Attar  drew  Geoffrey's  eyes 


162  TRUE  LOVE 

to  the  door.  There  was  Bonsor  with  his  friend  Riley, 
and  they  came  to  a  table  beside  that  of  the  others, 
very  much  with  the  air  of  joining  them.  Attar  and 
Riley  had  exchanged  cool  nods,  and  Attar  had  had 
time  to  mutter  to  Geoffrey :  "  Worse  than  Bonsor." 
However,  for  a  time  they  all  observed  the  forms,  and 
it  was  a  pretty  mild  remark  by  Bonsor  that  fired  the 
train.  It  was  couched  almost  as  a  compliment,  but  of 
that  unhappy  variety  which  implies  the  removal  of 
scales  from  eyes  that  had  been  wantonly  blind. 
And  Riley  grossly,  rudely,  said :  "  I  suppose  Lind- 
say sees  at  last  which  side  his  bread  is  buttered 
on." 

Geoffrey  said :  "  Oh,  take  that  man  away." 
And  then  a  hubbub  burst  out;  every  one  was  talk- 
ing. Riley  was  strident,  Burke  contributed  a  deep 
roar,  Imalian,  hastily  parceling  up  his  volume,  was 
stemming  with  irony  the  flood  of  Bonsor's  aimless  elo- 
quence. Geoffrey  interjected  an  occasional  insult, 
while  Attar  tried  to  restrain  him,  suggesting,  however, 
that  an  examination  of  Riley's  bumps  would  be  very 
interesting.  The  classical  allusion  was  lost  on  the 
company.  There  was  so  much  noise  that  the  dispute 
overflowed,  and  outsiders  took  some  share  in  it. 
"  Hardly  dignified,  this,"  said  Attar,  but  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  withdraw.  A  stranger,  intervening,  wished  to 
know  whether  a  majority  of  the  Herald  shares  were 
not  held  by  Germans,  and  whether  the  leaders  were 
not  written  by  men  of  German  extraction.  "  Don't 
answer  the  fool,"  said  Burke,  but  the  man  kept  re- 
iterating :  "  Is  that  the  case  ?  "  Attar  said,  "  I  can 


RECRIMINATIONS  163 

assure  you,  sir,  that  several  drunken  men  have  said 
so." 

Riley  bawled  out  that  there  would  have  been  some 
excuse  for  them  if  they  had  been  Germans.  It  was 
the  unpatriotic  blindness  of  Englishmen  that  distressed 
him.  "  You  would  not  listen,"  he  said,  "  you  would 

not  prepare,  you  would  do  nothing "  "  Except  cry 

Peace,  Peace,  when  there  was  no  Peace,"  intervened 
Bonsor  finely. 

Attar  said :  "  The  point  is,  I  understand,  that  we 
didn't  know  this  war  was  coming  and  did  nothing  to 
prepare  for  it." 

"  That's  one  point,"  said  Riley,  "  but " 

Attar  pursued :  "  You  did  know  it  was  coming. 
What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  You  received  warnings  enough,"  said  Bonsor, 
and  Riley,  slightly  disconcerted,  said  "  Deaf  and 
blind." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Attar.  "  Stick  to  the  point.  I  was 
too  dense  to  see  that  war  must  come.  You  saw  it 
clearly.  What  did  you  do?" 

"What  could  we  do?"  said  Riley.  "I'm  not  the 
editor  of  a  leading  provincial  paper." 

"  Let's  grant  that  you  couldn't  do  much.  What  did 
you  do  ?  " 

"  This  is  totally  irrelevant,"  said  Riley.  "  You're 
just  drawing  a  red  herring  across  the  trail.  At  the 
best  you  were  hopelessly,  ridiculously  mistaken.  You 
wouldn't  listen  to  the  most  solemn  assurances  from 
those  who  knew " 

"  Come,  now,"  said  Attar ;  "  nobody  knew.     Ob- 


164  TRUE  LOVE 

viously  there  was  some  chance  of  war  and  the  Herald 
underestimated  the  chance.  The  stupid  people  were 
right,  as  they  often  are,  but  that  doesn't  make  them 
wise.  War  or  peace  ?  It's  a  toss-up.  Heads  or  tails  ? 
You  cry  war  and  it  is,  and  you  have  the  illusion  of 
wisdom.  We  staked  on  peace  and  were  wrong.  The 
easy  course  was  to  be  moderately  bellicose,  but  we 
chose  the  difficult,  courageous  one,  and  tried  to  keep 
the  peace." 

"  Sir,"  called  out  an  indignant  stranger,  "  do  you 
call  Lord  Roberts  one  of  the  stupid  people  ?  " 

"  I  call  him  a  fine  old  fellow,"  said  Attar,  "  and  one 
of  the  half-dozen  men  in  the  country  that  might  re- 
proach us  with  some  point.  But  the  conversation  is 
becoming  general  and  I  came  here  for  a  quiet  cup  of 
tea." 

"  Yes,  you've  a  genius  for  getting  out  of  things, 
you  Herald  people,"  said  Riley  bitterly.  "  You  make 
the  most  idiotic  mistakes  and  then  you  get  away  in  a 
cloud  of  words." 

"  Ah !  yes,"  said  Attar  pleasantly,  "  it  must  be 
deuced  annoying  to  you  when  you  see  us  escaping 
again.  You  thought  we'd  dished  ourselves  and  we 
haven't.  And  what's  more,  Riley,  we  aren't  going  to. 
We're  as  sound  as  a  bell.  Your  attempt  to  make  us 
out  traitors  or  semi-traitors  will  be  a  failure.  Inci- 
dentally, it's  the  meanest  and  most  despicable  move 
that  we've  had  in  these  parts.  Go  home  and  weep, 
man.  You'll  be  proud  to  know  us  yet.  There  isn't  a 
paper  in  the  land  that  will  run  this  war  better  than 
we.  I  can  say  so  because  it  won't  be  my  doing.  Don't 


RECRIMINATIONS  165 

come  hectoring  here,  Riley.  We're  as  loyal  as  you 
and  not  such  fools." 

It  was  a  remarkable  outburst  for  the  well-balanced 
Attar,  and  Riley  and  Bonsor  shook  with  rage.  They 
both  talked  together,  and  Bonsor,  never  incisive,  domi- 
nated by  loudness.  Attar  had  touched  the  point 
shrewdly ;  the  Herald  was  getting  away  again,  and  its 
enemies  did  believe  that  it  had  committed  itself  in 
these  days  preceding  the  war.  Riley  brought  them 
back  to  this.  He  shouted  incriminating  sentences  from 
leaders,  and  Bonsor,  less  informed,  had  to  fall  back 
into  the  chorus.  "  Do  you  justify  that?  "  cried  Riley, 
and  Bonsor  echoed,  "  Yes,  what  d'you  say  to 
that?" 

"  Got  a  bit  nasty,  did  we  ?  "  said  Attar  calmly.  "  My 
dear  men,  d'you  seriously  think  I'm  going  to  contend 
for  the  verbal  inspiration  of  the  Herald.  Like  every 
other  paper  it's  crammed  with  blunders  of  every  de- 
scription. It's  written  by  men  in  all  sorts  of  moods. 
Sometimes  they're  passionate  moods  and  indiscretions 
pop  out.  We're  not  all  gods  or  angels.  You  must  take 
us  in  bulk.  Judge  the  wise  man  by  his  chance  word 
and  he's  a  fool.  You  want  us  to  say  rash  things,  to 
goad  us  to  the  extreme  and  then  to  judge  us.  I  hope 
I'm  not  becoming  apologetic.  I  just  want  to  help  you 
to  a  point  of  view." 

Riley  said :  "  You've  no  such  thing  as  editorial 
supervision,  then  ?  " 

"  Bravo,  Riley,"  said  Attar ;  "  that's  the  most  intelli- 
gent thing  you've  said  yet.  But  even  the  editor's  a 
human  being.  Theoretically  he's  the  king  who  can  do 


166  TRUE  LOVE 

no  wrong.  Actually  we  rejoice  in  him  as  a  gallant, 
Quixotic  gentleman.  That  among  other  things.  Ah! 
What  a  ludicrous  myth  you've  made  of  the  editor  of 
the  Herald!  And  you  try  to  detach  us,  to  bring  us 
over  to  your  mean  dullness ;  you  want  us  to  wink  and 
say  that,  of  course,  we  have  to  conform,  but  it's  all 
madness.  No,  Riley.  No,  Bonsor." 

Inevitably  the  circle  had  enlarged,  and  there  was  a 
muttering  fringe  to  it.  The  times  were  strange,  and 
conventional  manners  relaxed.  "  All  I  can  say  is  I 
wouldn't  pollute  my  house  with  the  rag,"  cried  an 
angry  citizen,  and  Attar  said,  "  Really,  sir  ?  Your 
house  is  charming.  I'm  sure,  but  you  must  feel  very 
uncomfortable  when  you  go  home  drunk."  But  Geof- 
frey broke  in  here.  "  You  remind  me,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  of  an  old  story.  A  gentleman  was  showing  a  philoso- 
pher over  his  house.  It  was  a  beautiful  house,  all 
spick  and  span.  And  the  philosopher  spat  in  the 
gentleman's  face.  '  Pardon  me,'  he  said,  '  but  there 
was  no  other  place ! ' ' 

There  was  a  pause  and  a  splutter  of  laughter,  and 
the  citizen  cried :  "  Do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  d'you  think?  "  said  Burke. 

But  now  an  earnest  little  man  intervened.  He  had 
always  had  a  high  regard  for  the  Herald,  had  read  it 
regularly  for  thirty-three — no,  thirty-four — years,  ad- 
mired its  literary  style,  considered  its  market  reports 
sound,  but  its  theater  notices  too  severe — that  by  the 
way.  "  I  am  a  Liberal,"  he  pursued,  "  and  have  voted 
steadily  on  the  Liberal  side.  I  don't  say  the  leaders 
are  not  able,  but — the  attitude  towards  capital,  now; 


RECRIMINATIONS  167 

the  encouragement  of  the  unreasonable  encroachments 
of  labor "  and  so  on.  As  to  the  war,  he  must  con- 
fess that  he  was  reluctant  to  believe 

"  Poor  little  devil,"  interjected  Burke. 

Attar  said :  "  I  take  you,  sir.  Your  moderation  does 
you  credit.  But  why  should  we  mold  ourselves  on 
you  ?  There  are  lots  of  sorts  in  the  world." 

It  appeared  that  this  Liberal  regarded  himself  as 
representing  the  enlightened  sense  of  the  community. 
He  had  supported  the  Herald  and  it  was  not  too  much 
to  ask  that  the  Herald  should  support  him.  If  it  failed 
to  do  so — his  gesture  implied  that  this  was  at  its  own 
risk. 

"  You  mean  that  we  are  to  kow-tow  to  our  cus- 
tomers ?  "  said  Attar.  "  To  give  the  public  what  it 
wants  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  the  public,"  said  the  Liberal,  "  but  you 
must  acknowledge  some  obligation — yes,  and  some  re- 
sponsibility to  your  party." 

"  Damn  the  party,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  You  daren't  say  that  in  your  paper,"  cried  Bonsor. 

"  We  say  it  every  day." 

"  It  amounts  to  this,"  said  Riley,  "  that  they  repre- 
sent nothing  but  themselves.  They  live  in  a  little  hot- 
house, forcing  opinions." 

Another  voice  boomed  out :  "  They're  like  the  Bour- 
bons: they  learn  nothing  and  they  forget  nothing." 

"  There  seems  to  be  some  slight  contradiction  here," 
said  Attar,  leaning  forward  to  catch  sight  of  the  owner 
of  the  voice.  "  You're  giving  us  all  the  virtues — initia- 
tive and  endurance  too,  independence  and  loyalty." 


168  TRUE  LOVE 

"  You'll  have  your  windows  broken  yet,"  bawled 
a  coarse  voice. 

"  Ah !  well !  "  said  Attar,  "  there's  an  argument  that 
we  can  all  understand.  I  sympathize  with  that  hearty 
gentleman.  He  believes  that  we're  in  German  pay,  no 
doubt.  Simple  melodrama  is  his  line.  A  good,  bellow- 
ing patriot,  are  you,  sir?  Qualification  shows  the 
cloven  hoof?  Well,  if  you'll  sing  the  right  songs  and 
keep  your  hands  clean  I'm  with  you.  Keep  it  pure. 
Why  not  join  us  in  a  bit  of  idealism?  Why,  you 
fools,  we're  all  on  one  side.  We're  something  better 
than  buccaneers  now.  The  old  songs  are  good,  but 
we've  got  to  make  some  new  ones.  Riley,  I've  been 
rude  to  you  and  I  shall  be  again,  but  I'm  conscious 
now  that  we've  infinite  things  in  common.  Here's  a 
big  war  coming,  and  it'll  be  a  strain  such  as  we've 
never  suffered  before.  Great  Heavens!  It's  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  say,  '  I've  been  wrong. 
Let's  start  again ' ;  it's  infinitely  difficult  to  go  half- 
way. We  were  blind,  you  say.  We  didn't  foresee  this 
tremendous  explosion.  It's  very  much  a  matter  of 
temperament.  We  lacked  faith  in  melodrama.  Don't 
let's  waste  ourselves  in  recriminations,  you  damned 
fool.  What's  before  us?  I  think  we'll  pull  through, 
but  who  can  tell?  We  may  all  be  beaten  in  a  month." 

"  The  man  who  says  so  is  a  traitor,"  shouted  Riley, 
and  there  was  a  confused  mutter  of  assent.  A  voice 
cried :  "  If  we're  beaten,  it's  thanks  to  you." 

"  The  man  who  says  so  is  a  traitor  ? "  repeated 
Attar.  "  But  I  think  the  man  who  daren't  face  it  is 
a  coward.  In  the  meantime  we'll  hope  and  trust." 


RECRIMINATIONS  169 

He  rose  and  Geoffrey  and  Iraalian  followed  him. 
"  Coming,  Burke  ?  "  said  Geoffrey,  but  Burke  ordered 
a  second  pot  of  tea  and  another  tea-cake.  He  pre- 
ferred to  remain  among  the  enemy  rather  than  to 
give  the  impression  of  a  general  retreat.  Attar  bowed 
to  the  company  with  some  ceremony,  and  one  or  two 
said  "  Good  afternoon,"  but  generally  it  was  a  sullen 
silence.  On  the  way  upstairs  Imalian  congratulated 
Attar.  "  What  a  set  of  savages,"  he  said.  He  hugged 
his  book;  there  was  yet  some  stability  in  the  world. 

Geoffrey  went  home  to  Mary,  and  his  consciousness 
of  the  scene  was  strong  enough  to  overcome  his  reluc- 
tance to  speak  to  her  about  it.  Perhaps  he  desired, 
too,  to  remind  her  that  the  Herald  was  one  of  the 
martyrs.  He  praised  Attar  whole-heartedly,  and  she 
smiled  a  little  at  Burke  settling  down  to  his  third  tea- 
cake  on  the  point  of  honor.  "  Or  was  he  merely 
hungry  ?  "  she  said.  "  Even  to  be  hungry  in  the  cir- 
cumstances would  be  a  merit,"  said  Geoffrey.  He  had 
particularly  admired  Attar's  appeal  to  be  judged  "  in 
bulk "  and  not  by  the  incriminating  extreme.  He 
quoted  this  to  Mary  and  she  said :  "  But  you  judge 
murderers  so."  She  was  a  disconcerting  person. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  OTHER  EXTREME 

THEY  brought  a  card  to  Geoffrey  in  his  room  at  the 
office  and  he  conned  the  name  of  Mr.  Arnold  Gray 
doubtfully.  At  a  newspaper  office  strangers  are  not 
received  with  enthusiasm,  but  neither  are  they  dis- 
missed with  contumely;  they  may  have  the  root  of 
some  matter  in  them.  Mr.  Gray  was  presently  re- 
vealed as  a  dark,  pale  young  man  of  twenty-five  or 
so  with  gentle,  impulsive  manners  and  a  measure  of 
gracefulness  in  person  and  dress.  He  mentioned  the 
name  of  a  common  acquaintance,  and  then  Geoffrey 
remembered  his  promise  to  advise  upon  journalism 
and  the  literary  career,  or,  at  least,  to  talk  of  them. 
Often  enough  his  good  nature  had  induced  him  to 
consent  to  interviews  with  young  men  or  women  who 
wanted  to  find  a  royal  road  to  success,  and  he  had 
been  flattered  at  the  implication  and  rather  enjoyed 
making  his  pronouncements.  Now  he  had  become  a 
little  doubtful  of  his  formulas  of  the  occasion,  which, 
it  seemed,  led  no  whither.  It  was  easy  enough  to 
talk  to  the  young  people,  even  to  make  suggestions, 
and  when  he  had  time  and  the  young  man  was  not 
impossible,  Geoffrey  would  ask  him  to  lunch  and  they 
would  get  on  together  swimmingly.  It  was  pleasant, 
and  Geoffrey  would  have  liked  to  believe  that  he  was 

170 


THE  OTHER  EXTREME  171 

inspiring,  but  it  was  hardly  business.  Many  of  the 
young  people  wanted  to  get  on  the  Herald  in  some 
capacity,  and  he  would  insinuate  that  this  was  not  so 
easy  as  they  might  suppose.  The  obvious  interest  in 
the  work  of  literary  editor — as  they  called  it — would 
sometimes  bring  a  delicate  shade  of  embarrassment  to 
the  relation. 

Mr.  Arnold  Gray  opened  out  very  much  as  others 
had  done,  and  on  the  surface  his  qualifications  were 
above  the  average.  He  fumbled  in  a  breast  pocket: 
"  I  ventured — I've  brought  you,"  he  said,  "  a  few 
things."  They  were  both  manuscript  and  printed ;  he 
had  had  certain  mild  successes  in  getting  things  ac- 
cepted. "  Of  course  I've  no  right  to  take  up  your 
time,"  he  said — the  usual  diffidence  and  the  usual  ex- 
pectation that  it  would  be  overruled.  Geoffrey,  too, 
advanced  his  share  of  the  diffidences;  he  was  modest 
enough  on  these  occasions.  He  took  the  papers  and 
was  relieved  to  see  that  they  were  not  voluminous. 
With  a  fair  show  of  readiness  he  offered  to  read  them 
and  give  an  opinion  of  what  they  pointed  to  in  prac- 
tical journalism.  "  That's  what  you  want,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  said  Geoffrey. 

It  seemed  that  this  was  part  but  not  all.  Gray 
wanted  the  opinion  to  go  beyond  that.  "  Journalism, 
of  course,"  he  said.  "  We  have  to  take  to  that,  but 
there  are  one  or  two  things  here — sketches  and  poems 
— on  which  I  should  like  a  critical  opinion — a  really 
critical  opinion." 

Geoffrey's  eyes  had  strayed  over  a  sentence  or  two 
and  now  he  read  a  passage  with  attention.  "  I  should 


172  TRUE  LOVE 

pronounce  with  more  confidence,"  he  said,  "  on  the 
narrower  issue.  But  anyhow  you  don't  want  an  opin- 
ion restricted  to  these,  I  think.  You  want  to  know 
where  you're  going  or  how  big  you  are — whether 
you're  a  genius  or  not.  I  can't  tell  you.  I  should 
have  a  better  chance  if  I  knew  your  character  and 
what  you  do  every  day  and  why  you  do  it,  and  whether 
you  can  stick  things  out  and  so  on.  These  bits  of 
writing  may  not  help  me  much." 

Gray  was  a  little  dashed.  "  I  don't  see  what  my 
private  life  has  to  do  with  it,"  he  said.  "  I  would 
rather  be  judged  on  these." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  I'll  read  them  and  let 
you  know  what  I  think."  He  made  a  slight  movement 
which  might  have  been  taken  as  an  indication  that  the 
interview  was  over,  but  Gray  did  not  stir.  "  I'm 
quite  ready  to  answer  any  personal  questions,"  he 
said. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Geoffrey,  "  but  I'm  not  ready  to  ask 
'cm." 

He  rose  and  Gray  followed  slowly.  They  stared  at 
one  another,  and  then  Gray  began  to  thank  him  ef- 
fusively. "  There  is  one  thing  that  strikes  me,"  said 
Geoffrey,  "  though  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  relevant." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Isn't  it  an  odd  time  to  go  into  this  ?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Some  of  us  are  pretty  well  obsessed  by  the  war." 

Gray  said :  "  I  don't  intend  to  take  any  notice  of  the 
war." 

"  Oh,  come !  "  said  Geoffrey. 


THE  OTHER  EXTREME  173 

"  I  had  hoped  that  you  would^sympathize  with  that 
attitude,  Mr.  Arden." 

"  I  find  it  difficult  to  realize,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  I  think  that,  as  far  as  possible,  we  should  not  let 
it  make  any  difference.  I  mean  to  go  on  just  as 
before." 

"  My  young  friend,  how  the  devil  can  you  ?  " 

Gray  quoted  Meredith — a  fine  epigram  about  the 
soul  being  above  the  baser  mischances,  and  Geoffrey 
reminded  him  that  Meredith  had  warned  us  to  arm 
against  Germany — the  Germany  that  he  knew  and 
loved.  But  Gray  insisted  that  with  the  Victorian 
writers — "  and  Meredith  was  eminently  Victorian  " — 
you  must  take  the  gold  and  reject  the  dross.  It  was 
delivered  loftily,  and  Geoffrey  was  slightly  amused 
and  conscious  of  an  incipient  personal  opposition.  He 
didn't  want  this,  and,  indeed,  Gray's  youthful  asser- 
tiveness  was  not  without  charm.  He  wondered 
whether  Mary  would  like  him  and  could  imagine  her 
kindling  generously  though  she  was  strict  on  the  point 
of  manners  and  Gray's  were  more  assured  than  safe. 
The  poor  lad  might  have  a  difficult  time  before  him; 
he  was,  so  to  say,  riding  for  a  fall,  and  Geoffrey 
wished  to  be  kind.  After  all,  he  was  not  so  firmly 
planted  that  he  could  afford  to  slight  any  sincere  con- 
viction, and  here  was  a  man  who  might  have  volun- 
teered in  the  first  batch  or  might  struggle  against  com- 
pulsion to  the  last. 

"  Are  you  in  favor  of  this  war  ?  "  said  Gray,  and 
Geoffrey  found  himself  compelled  to  labor  a  case.  He 
was  ranging  himself,  he  was  defining,  and  he  could 


174  TRUE  LOVE 

not  do  it  with  enthusiasm.  Gray  was  not  afflicted  with 
doubts,  and  it  appeared  that  he  had  a  lively  contempt 
for  politicians  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  labor 
men.  He  had  glib  platitudes  about  secret  diplomacy, 
and  he  quoted  the  humanists  smugly  enough.  Geof- 
frey was  annoyed  with  himself,  for  he  knew  he  wasn't 
quite  fair.  Most  of  us,  however  sincere,  rely  on  for- 
mulas ;  you  cannot  attain  the  freshness  of  spirit  every 
time.  He  asked  himself  how  he  would  have  got  on 
with  this  young  man  if  there  had  been  no  war  to 
confuse  the  issue  of  the  literary  aspiration,  and  doubt- 
less by  this  time  he  would  have  been  asking  him  to 
lunch.  And  he  wasn't  getting  at  the  man's  message, 
his  point  of  view ;  he  was  evading  him. 

Suddenly  Geoffrey  said :  "  What'll  you  do  if  con- 
scription comes  ?  "  and  Gray  bristled  at  this.  "  Resist 
it  to  the  death,"  he  said  emphatically,  and  it  was  clear 
that  this  was  very  much  in  his  mind.  This  was  the 
real  preoccupation,  and  not  the  concern  with  literature 
and  the  literary  career.  He  began  an  argument  on 
the  inexpediency  of  war  from  the  social  and  political 
point  of  view  and  it  blended  confusingly  with  one  on 
the  needlessness  of  this  war.  It  struck  Geoffrey  as 
able  in  a  haphazard  way ;  you  had  to  agree  with  most 
of  it  though  it  seemed  that  they  were  missing  links. 
But  Geoffrey  was  conscious  that  feeling,  all  the  time, 
was  swaying  both  of  them;  neither  was  capable  of 
pure  reason.  We  waver  over  a  decision  and  when  it 
is  made  our  loyalties  grow  until  we  are  ready  to  die 
for  it. 

Gray  began  to  talk  about  Christ,  and  the  Christian 


THE  OTHER  EXTREME  175 

ideal,  and  when  he  faltered  and  "Hushed  over  it  Geof- 
frey began  to  like  him  better.  "  Of  course,"  Gray  said 
— and  the  "  of  course  "  was  not  without  its  humor — 
"  I  am  not  dogmatically  a  Christian."  And  Geoffrey 
agreed  that  the  world  wanted  a  great  infusion  of 
Christianity  now.  The  difficulty  was  that  if  one  side 
maintained  Christian  ideals  and  the  other  didn't,  the 
idealists  might  be  extinguished.  "  We  can't  let  the 
Germans  walk  over  the  world  and  take  what  they 
want,"  he  said,  and,  shrewdly  enough,  Gray  replied: 
"  That's  just  what  the  Germans  are  saying  of  us." 
He  began  to  develop  an  argument  that  while  it  was 
best  to  have  Christian  ideals  all  round,  it  was  better 
to  have  them  on  one  side  than  not  at  all,  just  as  one- 
sided free  trade  was  "better  than  nothing.  Geoffrey 
grew  restive  under  this,  and  when  Gray  asked  him  if 
it  wouldn't  be  a  noble  experiment  he  said  wearily,  and 
hating  his  formula,  that  it  wasn't  practical  politics. 
"  Practical ! "  said  Gray  with  contempt,  and!  then  he 
brought  in  the  word  "  pusillanimous "  almost  sting- 
ingly.  With  what  patience  he  could  assume  Geoffrey 
suggested  that  even  idealists  must  have  a  practical  and 
opportunist  policy  as  well  as  the  ideals.  They  must 
incline  one  way  or  another,  and,  so  to  say,  couldn't 
always  stalk  out  when  the  division  bell  rang.  They 
were  not  getting  very  near  to  one  another,  and  it  didn't 
advance  matters  for  Gray  to  utter  a  sententious  warn- 
ing about  the  inevitable  defilement  of  touching  pitch. 

"  So  the  pure  in  heart  are  to  stand  aloof  while  the 
world  is  destroyed,"  said  Geoffrey.  He  admitted  the 
implication  that  we  are  better  than  the  Germans  or  at 


176  TRUE  LOVE 

least  moving  on  better  lines.  "  Insular  prejudice,"  in- 
terjected Gray,  and  Geoffrey  asked  him  whether  he 
really  believed  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  national 
right  or  wrong,  whether  nations  at  all  times  were 
equally  innocent  and  equally  guilty.  It  seemed  that 
Gray  was  skeptical  about  our  diplomatic  case ;  but,  said 
Geoffrey,  "  suppose  that  we  are  clearly  in  the  right 
and  that  they  are  confessed  bandits.  Would  you  fight 
then?"  Gray  shook  his  head.  "Then,"  said  Geof- 
frey, "  it's  some  sort  of  personal  nicety  that  prevents 
you." 

"  You  mean  I'm  a  coward  ?  "  said  Gray. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Quite  simply  I  believe  that  to  turn  the  other  cheek 
is  the  highest  philosophy ;  and  it  isn't  only  for  domestic 
occasions,  it's  for  all  times  and  all  cases.  There  never 
was  a  case  worth  a  war." 

"  Was  there  ever  a  case  worth  a  strike  ?  "  said  Geof- 
frey. 

"  There  isn't  an  analogy." 

"  What's  the  essential  difference?  " 

"  The  shedding  of  blood.    Human  life." 

"  You  think  too  much  of  human  life,"  said  Geoffrey, 
"  and  too  little.  What  are  we — you  and  I  ?  What  are 
a  thousand  million  of  us  in  the  sight  of  God?  Not  a 
sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  His  marking  it? 
But  many  sparrows  fall  to  the  ground." 

"  You  and  I,  here  and  now,"  said  Gray,  "  must  deal 
justly  and  kindly  with  one  another.  If  you're  here 
and  I'm  in  Germany  is  the  obligation  less?  " 

"  Considerably  less,  I  think/'  said  Geoffrey,  "  but 


THE  OTHER  EXTREME  177 

not  altogether  gone.  I  reject  such  a  test  of  personal 
relation.  I  see  a  horde  of  savages  streaming  across 
Belgium,  sacking  and  shooting.  With  any  of  them, 
standing  in  your  place,  I  might  be  friendly.  As  it  is 
I  would  strike  him  down  to  prevent  a  worse  thing 
happening." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Gray,  "  you  listen  to  these  calumnies." 

"  I  hate  to  believe  that  these  things  are  true,"  said 
Geoffrey.  "  I  hate  the  people  who  believe  them  read- 
ily and  eagerly.  This  war  is  a  nightmare  to  me.  Its 
coming  was  a  triumph  for  the  stupid  people  who  said 
it  must  come.  Now,  after  the  stupid,  come  the  malig- 
nant, and  they're  right  too.  These  were  calumnies 
and  they're  coming  true." 

"  I  see  more  than  ever  the  need  for  us,"  said  Gray. 
"  Just  and  honorable  men  like  you  are  carried  away. 
We  shall  uphold  peace  and  charity  in  the  world  or 
they  will  be  forgotten.  And  you  must  always  remem- 
ber this :  that  we  claim  the  right  to  decide  on  our  own 
actions." 

"  That's  the  point,  I  suppose,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  We  stand  for  liberty." 

Impatiently  Geoffrey  said,  "  You  let  words  control 
you.  Literature  is  the  control  of  words." 

The  man  was  untouched,  he  was  inexorable,  and  he 
had  made  more  impression  on  Geoffrey  than  Geoffrey 
on  him.  And  yet  he  had  helped  to  shape,  to  range. 
Geoffrey  saw  in  him  a  fervour  that  had  its  element — 
and  a  strong  element — of  pugnacity  in  it.  His  lips 
compressed,  his  eyes  flashed,  he  had  the  fighting  spirit. 
In  the  time  to  come  he  would  suffer  bravely.  It  would 


178  TRUE  LOVE 

be  absurd  to  call  such  a  man  a  coward,  and  yet  it 
might  be  that  far  back  in  the  sources  of  things  some 
instinct  of  timidity  had  begun  to  shape  his  course. 
Committed  to  it,  the  essential  toughness  of  fiber  was 
there.  And  in  the  martyrs  it  is  not  the  meekness  but 
the  toughness  that  matters.  The  meekness  is  a  won- 
derful gloss,  a  traditional  badge  assumed  and  main- 
tained while  deep  in  them  is  that  obdurate,  pugnacious, 
"  I  will  not,"  the  complement  to  the  will  that  moves 
the  world. 

They  did  not  pursue  the  argument  further,  and 
Geoffrey  had  been  conscious  that  his  own  side  of  it 
had  been  in  part  experimental.  He  had  warmed  to- 
wards the  young  man  as  their  differences  became  more 
acute.  Their  handshake,  finally,  had  something  of  the 
magnanimity  that  may  be  seen  at  the  end  of  a  bout 
in  the  ring  when  the  bruisers  are  not  too  groggy. 
"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Gray  dejectedly,  "  you'll  think  me — 
I  mean  this  will  hardly  prejudice  you  in  favor 
of " 

He  had  been  tactless,  but  he  was  a  man  to  glory 
in  his  tactlessness.  "  I  shall  read  your  stuff  with  all 
the  more  interest,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I  like  a  man  to 
hold  his  end  up,  and  nowadays  it  seems  a  chance  which 
side  one's  on."  It  was  a  friendly,  incautious  conces- 
sion. Gray  said :  "  That's  so  with  you,  I  suppose.  I — • 
those  I  am  with  are  firm  as  a  rock." 

"  So  are  the  German  militarists,  I  believe,"  said 
Geoffrey.  He  laughed  cheerfully  but  Gray  kept  very 
solemn.  However,  he  looked  round  the  room  with 
some  interest  before  Tie  went.  He  asked  permission  to 


THE  OTHER  EXTREME  179 

look  at  the  titles  of  the  books,  and  turned  a  mystified, 
owl-like  gaze  upon  Geoffrey  as  one  who  specialized  on 
music,  the  poor-law,  South  America,  and  political 
biography.  Geoffrey  would  have  left  it  at  that,  but 
some  residue  of  conscience  induced  him  to  explain 
that  all  this  was  merely  a  library  overflow.  Gray 
went  off  rather  wistfully.  As  Geoffrey  said,  he  had 
kept  his  end  up;  he  had  even  imposed  his  personality 
here,  but  he  was  unsatisfied.  In  those  days  the  per- 
turbations were  always  in  excess  of  the  solaces. 

And  then  Burke  came  in  and  he  was  a  sort  of 
tonic.  He  made  Geoffrey's  sympathies  with  Gray 
seem  very  filmy,  and  yet  occasionally  he  stimulated 
them ;  Burke's  downright  world  was  not  the  only  one. 
He  told  him  about  Gray,  whom  Burke  insisted  upon 
regarding  as  a  decadent  poet.  He  belonged  to  "  that 
lot,"  and  the  distinction  between  the  decadent  and 
the  Tolstoyan,  for  instance,  was  not  worth  making  in 
these  times.  "  Are  we  already  given  over  to  the  drill- 
sergeant  ?  "  groaned  Geoffrey,  and  Burke  said,  "  Prac- 
tically." He  was  a  Philistine,  of  course,  and  perhaps 
sincerely  rather  than  unconsciously  so ;  he  was  capable 
of  the  humorous  view.  With  some  shrewdness,  and 
stimulated  by  Geoffrey's  explanations,  he  said :  "  I 
know  the  kind.  He  won't  have  anybody  beating  him 
at  humility."  Certainly  it  was  a  relief  to  talk  to 
Burke,  yet  even  with  him  Geoffrey  felt  that  he  was  to 
be  tossed  to  and  fro  like  a  shuttlecock  between  ex- 
treme, contending  parties.  It  was,  for  a  time  and  in 
a  measure,  his  fate.  He  couldn't  bridle  his  tongue  in 
those  early  days,  and  so  he  found  himself  decried  as  a 


180  TRUE  LOVE 

pro-German  or  cold-shouldered  as  a  lukewarm  Eng- 
lishman; he,  with  his  romantic  passion  for  England, 
was  insulted  by  little  cotton-spinners  who  thought  that 
the  greatest  need  in  our  domestic  policy  was  to  keep 
the  operatives  down.  He  was  insulted  for  spontane- 
ous humanity,  for  common  sense,  sometimes  for  an 
impatient  indiscretion.  And  then  he  went  home  to 
Mary,  and  she  would  sit  in  silence,  gazing,  as  it  might 
be,  at  the  river  of  blood  between  them.  Not  always, 
for  she  would  be  eagerly  sympathetic  sometimes ;  she 
would  even  talk  of  the  military  operations. 

To  Geoffrey  the  idea  of  logical  ruthlessness  had 
always  been  attractive  and  he  played  with  it  now.  He 
had  scandalized  Burke  by  suggesting  that  war  might 
be  shortened  and  simplified  by  killing  the  prisoners,  or 
even  your  own  severely  wounded.  Of  course,  it 
couldn't  be  done,  or  couldn't  till  some  race  of  immoral 
intellectuals  got  power.  And  wasn't  it  possible  that 
in  some  struggle  for  the  domination  of  the  world  the 
issue  might  be  decided  by  arming  the  women?  Of 
course,  Geoffrey  was  all  for  peace  and  brotherhood, 
and  these  speculations  of  his  appeared  to  Burke  as  the 
abnormal  excesses  of  one  who  deprived  himself  of  his 
natural  bloodthirstiness,  And  presently  these  ruthless 
theories  were  to  induce  a  more  philosophic  attitude  to 
German  implacabilities  than  that  of  some  of  his  fel- 
lows ;  not  to  the  mere  beastliness  and  cruelties,  but  to 
the  larger  issues  of  ruthless  policy. 

Burke,  the  good  fellow,  glared  at  him  in  some  irrita- 
tion of  perplexity  and  he  felt  that  he  was  wrong ;  the 
ingenious  Attar  was  the  man  to  appreciate  niceties  in 


THE  OTHER  EXTREME  181 

the  brewing  of  a  hell-broth.  And  he  had  to  justify 
himself  to  Burke;  he  always  felt  that.  Yes,  Burke 
was  an  Irishman  with  no  nonsense  about  him.  He 
was  for  the  substance,  not  the  shadow,  and  if  you 
were  sitting  in  a  Celtic  twilight  he  would  propose  to 
light  the  gas.  Mary  had  once  said  that  he  was  dis- 
loyal and,  of  course,  she  meant  disloyal  to  a  dim  tradi- 
tion, to  some  futility  of  the  ideal  that  all  Irishmen 
should  be  ready  to  die  for.  Geoffrey  had  denied  it 
strenuously.  For  Burke  to  accept  Sinn  Fein  he  must 
be  disloyal  to  himself.  And  he  had  a  sort  of  pride 
in  all  those  "  bloody  fools,"  his  idealist  countrymen ; 
he  regarded  them  almost  fondly,  as  you  might  clever, 
wayward  children. 

And  Mary  had  explicitly  and  almost  formally  with- 
drawn what  she  had  said.  Curiously,  it  was  after 
Burke  had  explained  the  working  of  a  machine  to  her. 
She  hated  machines  and  wanted  to  revert  to  primitive 
methods;  she  was  an  ardent  supporter  of  Langdale 
linens  and  beaten  coppers  and  all  the  primitive  proc- 
esses that  Burke  regarded  as  incredible  trifling.  It 
was  by  a  sort  of  inspiration  that  he  began  to  describe 
the  working  of  a  great  machine,  and  he  did  it  so 
"  gently  and  faithfully " — as  she  said  to  Geoffrey 
afterwards — that  it  clouded  her  convictions.  Burke's 
patient  exposition  revealed  the  idea  of  the  machine 
in  his  mind  as  beautiful.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
industrial  tyranny.  And  though  Burke  had  told  her 
that  he  had  not  described  the  machine  quite  as  it  was 
— that  being  beyond  his  power  of  penetrating  to  her 
comprehension — it  seemed  that  her  sense  of  the  faith- 


182  TRUE  LOVE 

fulness  of  it  all  was  deepened ;  he  was  not  a  material- 
ist and  the  value  was  in  the  idea. 

Burke  did  not  understand  her,  and  he  confessed  to 
Geoffrey  that  he  felt  himself  to  be  like  one  of  those 
savages  who  can  only  count  up  to  five  and  have  no 
ambition  to  extend  their  vocabulary.  "  I  suppose  I'm 
indolent,  Arden;  I'm  not  curious  enough.  Come  to 
me  on  a  definite  thing  within  my  ken  and  I'm  no  fool. 
Am  I,  now  ?  There's  something  lacking.  What  you'd 
call  the  mystical?  Your  sister's  beyond  me.  Beauti- 
ful. I  see  that." 

He  was  a  humble  fellow.  Geoffrey  sounded  him 
for  a  note  of  irony,  even  of  skepticism,  but  they  were 
not  there.  And  now  it  appeared  that  he  had  accepted 
the  simple  alternatives  in  this  war :  "  We  must  con- 
quer or  perish."  It  was  what  Geoffrey  heard  on  every 
hand.  It  was  a  practical  formula,  and  he  saw  himself 
accepting  it  as  a  working  one.  There  are  times  when 
your  skepticisms,  your  qualifications,  may  be  put  aside. 
Attar's  "  We  may  be  beaten  in  a  month,"  had  startled 
him ;  it  was  the  fine,  clear  pronouncement  of  the  intel- 
lectual, and  it  had  set  him  searching  for  alternatives, 
even  for  mitigations.  To  be  beaten  would  not  be  the 
end  of  us,  as  the  fanatics  asserted,  though  it  would  be 
bad  enough.  The  spirit  of  man,  the  spirit  of  English- 
men is  not  so  brittle.  The  humiliation,  the  material 
burdens,  the  debacle  of  the  inviolate,  romantical  pose 
would  be  dreadful  to  him  as  to  his  fellows,  but  they 
would  not  be  the  end,  These  dullards  with  their  iron 
and  brass  may  cripple  but  they  cannot  kill. 

But  now  we  were  to  become  opportunists.     With 


THE  OTHER  EXTREME  183 

Burke  sitting  there  before  him.^irnperturbably  smok- 
ing a  pipe,  he  was  ready  to  argue  that  there  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger,  to 
stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood,  and  disguise 
fair  nature  with  hard-favored  rage.  He  quoted  this 
famous  bluster  of  Shakespeare  and  Burke  nodded  ap- 
provingly. He  truckled  a  little  to  Burke,  he  was  not 
quite  fair  to  Gray,  or  rather  to  his  most  generous 
idealization  of  him.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  there's  a  funda- 
mental stupidity  in  projecting  yourself  into  the  future 
— and  the  ideal  is  the  future — when  it's  a  practical 
policy  that's  wanted.  And  why  dogmatize  about  the 
sacredness  of  human  life?  It's  cheap  enough  when 
the  world  moves  on  the  grand  scale.  It's  our  egoism 
that  revolts ;  the  destruction  of  our  fellows  in  such  an 
appalling  analogy.  It's  good  to  have  a  cause  to  die 
for,  no  matter  what — country,  humanity,  anything." 

Burke,  with  Gray  in  his  mind,  humorously  sug- 
gested vegetarianism. 

"  Ah,  well !  "  said  Geoffrey ;  "  there  are  intelligent 
young  people  pointing  out  that  races  are  mixed  and 
that  splendid  humanitarians  are  left  stranded  without 
any  particular  country.  I  talk  of  England,  but  if  you 
add  Scotland  and  Wales — and  what  about  Ireland? — 
your  symbol  does  change  a  bit.  But  a  loyalty,  a 
romantic  loyalty,  to  something." 

"  I'm  an  Irish  utilitarian,  meself ,"  said  Burke. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  having  you  beside  me  in  a  scrim- 
mage," said  Geoffrey. 

"  For  as  long  as  I  see  reason." 

"  Rubbish." 


184  TRUE  LOVE 

"  Well,  for  as  long  as  the  fun  lasts,"  said  Burke. 

They  went  out  and  lunched  together  pleasantly 
enough.  "  One  talks  big,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  but  there's 
still  this  habit  of  finding  a  comfortable  corner." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE 

GEOFFREY  had  not  volunteered  with  the  first  rush, 
then.  He  had  had  the  impulse  to  do  so,  but  it  was 
only  one  of  his  impulses  and  his  was  a  questioning 
spirit.  From  his  room  at  the  office  he  saw  the  ragged 
columns  of  volunteers  march  through  the  streets 
headed  by  brass  bands,  with  their  thunderous  appeal 
to  the  emotions.  He  thrilled  to  it;  he  shook  with 
the  anticipation,  even  the  apprehension,  of  the  time 
when  he  would  march  with  them;  and  he  delayed. 
There  was  something  portentous  about  his  delibera- 
tion that  appealed  to  his  humor.  Men  were  pouring 
in  and  the  authorities  had  more  than  they  could 
handle ;  it  did  not  matter  whether  you  joined  on  Tues- 
day or  on  Thursday  unless  to  your  own  boyish  satis- 
faction. And  he  was  one  who  could  linger  over  the 
taste  of  things ;  he  would  not  rush  through  the  phases 
of  an  experience.  He  watched  these  hobbledehoy 
civilians  march  past,  so  solemnly  and  sheepishly  and 
defiantly,  and  though  they  were  his  comrades  he  could 
contemplate  them,  for  a  time,  from  without.  He 
could  laugh  at  them  and  he  was  greatly  moved;  his 
eyes  were  sometimes  dimmed  with  tears.  The  rough 
attempt  at  regularity  threw  into  relief  all  the  discrep- 
ancies of  personality  and  tailoring.  They  were  pa- 
thetic and  immensely  inspiring.  The  faith  of  it — the 

185 


186  TRUE  LOVE 

faith  of  it!  From  their  soft  jobs — and  every  man, 
it  seems,  has  had  a  soft  job — they  went  to  be  roughly 
handled,  straightened,  drilled  and  trained  to  some  sort 
of  military  competence.  Then  the  unknown,  the  battle- 
fields, wounds  and  death.  Their  brains  might  be  flam- 
ing, doubts  clutching  their  hearts,  but  they  marched 
with  an  admirable  composure.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  never  done  justice  to  the  idea  of  disci- 
pline. And,  of  course,  it  is  one  of  the  world's  great 
dangers. 

He  encountered  queues  of  men  at  the  recruiting 
offices  waiting  their  turn  to  enlist.  One  day  he  walked 
along  a  line,  and,  regarded  critically,  it  didn't  seem 
that  the  might  of  Germany  had  much  to  fear  from 
these.  They  looked  strangely  small  and  shabby ;  they 
joked  a  little  sometimes,  they  lounged,  they  spat; 
some  looked  sullen,  and  some  appeared  to  be  gazing  at 
an  object  infinitely  far  away;  many  had  the  Briton's 
air  of  consciously  making  a  fool  of  himself.  He  came 
to  the  end  of  the  line  and  started,  for*there  was  the 
little  man  of  the  German  restaurant.  He  looked  de- 
fiant and  apologetic  too.  He  grinned  faintly  and  said : 
"Ad  to  do  it."  And  Geoffrey  felt  then  that  there 
had  never  been  anything  like  this  in  the  world  before, 
that  nothing  had  ever  mattered  so  much,  that  to  falter 
now  would  be  baseness  and  misery.  As  he  paused 
there,  the  little  man  looked  at  him  inquiringly  and 
muttered  again :  "  Ad  to."  Geoffrey  shook  hands  with 
him  and  hurried  away. 

He  saw  Lindsay  that  night  and  told  him  that  he 
wanted  to  go.  "  I  know  I'm  not  essential  here,"  he 


PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE  187 

said.  "  The  war  will  take  away"4ialf  my  work  and 
the  other  half  doesn't  matter  now."  It  was  a  rash- 
ness of  depreciation.  Lindsay  looked  at  him  keenly 
and  kindly  and  said :  "  Why  do  you  want  to  go  ?  I 
don't  say  you  are  wrong."  And  Geoffrey,  rather 
lamely,  attempted  some  description  of  his  feelings. 
They  came  out  rather  coldly  and  aridly.  After  all, 
they  were  feelings,  and  Lindsay  was  a  man  of  rock 
demanding  reasons  and  principles  and  an  ultimate 
righteousness.  He  was  to  the  community  a  mystical 
personage  and  legends  accumulated  about  him;  there 
he  was  quite  simply,  all  the  time,  just  demanding 
righteousness. 

Geoffrey  abandoned  any  attempt  to  recall  emotions 
in  tranquillity  and  shaped  some  patriotic  formulas. 
Lindsay  nodded  and  reflected,  and  Geoffrey  knew  well 
enough  the  direction  of  those  reflections.  It  was  "  the 
paper"  he  was  thinking  about;  that  was  the  passion 
of  his  life.  He  reflected  aloud :  "  We  might  lose 
Secretan." 

"  Secretan  ?  "  said  Geoffrey  in  astonishment. 

Lindsay  said :  "  The  age  may  be  raised  presently. 
There  are  some  temperaments  that  cannot  grow  old. 
Secretan  is  romantic." 

"Could  I  let  Secretan  go  first?" 

"  These  are  trifles,"  said  Lindsay.  He  was  silent 
for  a  time  and  then :  "  We  might  want  you."  Geoffrey 
waited  and  he  continued :  "  I  cannot  stand  in 
your  way.  You  must  follow  your  conscience.  The 
paper " 

He  paused,  and  Geoffrey  could  have  believed  that 


188  TRUE  LOVE 

he  had  in  his  mind :  Here  is  a  man  whose  devotion  is 
not  absolute  and  I  have  no  right  to  demand  that  it 
should  be.  Presently  he  went  on :  "  The  paper  will 
miss  you."  He  was  complimentary  and  exceedingly 
kind.  He  offered  to  write  to  a  personage  about  a 
commission.  Geoffrey  said  that  he  meant  to  enlist, 
and  Lindsay  frowned  over  this.  "  Your  intelligence 
should  be  of  use,"  he  said.  "  It  isn't  a  matter  of  sen- 
timent." 

Geoffrey  intimated  some  mistrust  of  himself,  and 
Lindsay  said :  "  That's  your  fault.  You've  never 
trusted  yourself  enough." 

"  The  skeptical  habit,  I  suppose,"  said  Geoffrey,  and 
Lindsay  told  him  to  try  to  acquire  a  dogmatic  belief 
in  himself. 

"  I  do  like  the  idea  of  working  up  from  the  ranks," 
said  Geoffrey. 

Lindsay  groaned :  "  Ah,  you  romantics !  "  All  the 
time  Geoffrey  had  it  in  his  mind  that  it  would  be 
easier  to  tell  Mary  that  he  was  enlisting;  that  would 
appeal  to  her. 

Outside  the  door  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  said 
something  to  Lindsay  about  "  the  paper  " ;  it  deserved 
something  handsome,  emotional,  lyrical,  and  Lindsay 
ought  to  know  how  he  felt  about  it.  Yes,  it  was  an 
annoying  omission  to  be  repaired  some  time;  another 
man  had  taken  his  place  in  Lindsay's  room.  It  would 
wait  till  to-morrow,  anyhow. 

Perhaps  it  was  strange — was  it  strange? — that  at 
these  times  his  mind  turned  more  to  Mary  than  to 
Sibyl.  Yet  when  he  left  Lindsay  he  went  out  into 


PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE  189 

the  street  and,  turning  homewards,  he  began  to  hum 
"  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  me  " ;  nothing  grander,  more 
exalted  than  that.  Perhaps  the  spirit  of  it  was  rather 
complicated,  but  there  were  streaks  of  humility  in  his 
irony.  He  was  an  experimentalist  in  emotions,  but 
he  forgot  himself  readily  enough  when  the  pressure 
rose.  And  he  had  a  useful  vein  of  doggedness.  To- 
night it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  call  at  the 
Wibberleys'  for  news  of  Sibyl,  and  when  he  reached 
the  house,  though  he  wanted  to  know  about  Sibyl, 
he  found  that  he  did  not  want  the  Wibberleys.  Such 
an  after-dinner  call  was  not  impracticable,  but  it  was 
unusual,  and  he  had  so  often  vexed  himself  by  bog- 
gling at  the  unusual,  that  he  had  now  a  fund  of  ex- 
asperation to  carry  him  on.  It  seemed,  too,  that  he 
must  be  a  lukewarm  lover  indeed  if  he  could  not  brave 
a  slight  ruffling  of  the  spirit  for  her;  and  he  did 
not  believe  himself  to  be  that. 

The  Wibberleys  were  quite  glad  to  see  him,  as 
people  are  when  you  break  upon  their  evening  torpor. 
They  were  both  reading  high-class  books  that  were 
pointedly  remote  from  the  war;  it  seemed  that  they 
were  still  disposed  to  ignore  the  war,  though,  obvi- 
ously, it  was  impossible  to  do  that  altogether.  Gras- 
mere  was  recalled,  and  the  feverish  days  there  that 
ought  to  have  been  so  peaceful  and  Wordsworthian. 
They  were  still  troubled  by  that  reproachful  shade, 
and  Geoffrey  suggested  that  Wordsworth  had  not  al- 
ways been  Wordsworthian;  that  youth  had  flamed  in 
him  too;  that  if  he  were  here  now  he  would  have 
been  concerned  with  hosts  other  than  the  golden  daf- 


190  TRUE  LOVE 

fodils.  And  so  they  got  to  "this  deplorable  war" 
which,  it  seems,  might  have  been  avoided  with  a  little 
tact.  The  Wibberleys  were  not  exactly  opposed  to  the 
war  (there  must  be  no  misunderstanding  about  that), 
but  they  wanted  it  to  be  waged  in  a  gentlemanlike 
manner ;  the  poor  creatures  were,  in  their  way,  roman- 
tic. In  their  presence,  Geoffrey  was  conscious  of  a 
deepening  brutality.  "  War  cannot  be  waged  faintly 
and  decently,"  he  said.  "  Look  what's  happening  in 
Belgium." 

The  Wibberleys  could  not  believe  what  was  hap- 
pening in  Belgium,  and,  indeed,  in  those  early  days 
all  generous  and  chivalrous  spirits  held  to  it  that  Ger- 
many was  maligned.  It  was  maligned  in  much,  but 
the  awful  residuum  of  facts  brought  triumph  to  the 
malignant.  And  even  then  the  pessimist  might  find 
a  gloomy  audience  if  he  predicted  the  disintegration 
of  humanity ;  this  war  has  been  vastly  reassuring,  for 
humanity  has  stood  fast. 

Matters  were  not  at  their  worst  yet,  but  Geoffrey 
was  tempted  to  a  little  pounding  of  the  shattered  com- 
placencies. It  was  a  mild  perversity  that  caused  him 
to  suggest  that  the  fragilities  represented  by  the  Hague 
Conference  would  go,  that  compunctions  would  be 
stripped  off  one  by  one  till  ruthlessness  and  stark 
horror  prevailed.  "  Then  we  should  never  have  em- 
barked on  it,"  cried  Wibberley,  and  Geoffrey's  "  What 
was  the  alternative  ? "  left  him  fuming.  And  then, 
curiously,  Geoffrey  detected  in  Mrs.  Wibberley  some 
response  to  his  mood.  "  We  are  in  for  it,"  she  said 
decidedly,  "  and  we  shall  have  supped  full  of  horrors 


PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE  191 

before  we  have  done."  Wibberley  looked  at  her  in 
some  surprise  and  Geoffrey  surmised  that  this  was  a 
new  line  for  her.  She  was  a  woman  who  liked  to 
be  in  the  swim,  and  merely  to  sit  at  home  reading 
the  classics  was  not  to  be  in  any  kind  of  swim.  Wib- 
berley, however,  had  more  sense  of  responsibility; 
he  was  committed  to  a  particular  attitude  at  the  club. 

"  The  trouble  is,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  that  in  war  it 
pays  to  strain  the  humane  conventions  to  the  break- 
ing-point and  a  little  beyond.  You  may  lose  your 
soul  and  win  the  war.  Have  you  ever  seen  two  well- 
matched  teams  play  football,  one  with  a  lower  stand- 
ard of  courtesy  and  law  than  the  other?  The  more 
brutal  side  wins.  You  can  decline  to  play  with  cads, 
but  you  can't  decline  to  fight  them.  And  if  they 
begin  to  kick  you  in  the  stomach,  must  you  stick  to 
your  fists?" 

"  You  mean  to  suggest " 

"  That  if  they  break  the  rules  we  shall  do  the  same." 

Wibberley  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  He  was  one 
of  those  who  preferred  feeble  resistance  to  the  un- 
comfortable inevitable  rather  than  clear  thinking  and 
decisive  action.  "  The  important  thing,"  said  Geof- 
frey, "  is  to  know  what  you're  doing  and  call  it  by  its 
right  name — murder  or  whatever  it  may  be.  It  may 
make  us  think  more  kindly  of  murderers." 

And  as  Wibberley  was  opposed  to  capital  punish- 
ment and  had  enlightened  views  on  the  treatment  of 
the  criminal,  here  was  a  way  of  escape  for  him. 

All  this  was  not  to  the  point,  and  Geoffrey  wanted 
to  get  away.  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Wibberley  and  asked 


192  TRUE  LOVE 

her  what  had  become  of  Miss  Drew.  Her  "  You  don't 
know,  either?  "  carried  a  suspicion  of  archness.  They 
had  no  recent  news,  but  she  was  to  be  at  the  Playgoers' 
Theater  again  this  autumn  and  might  be  here  rehears- 
ing any  time.  Mrs.  Wibberley  had  found  her  strangely 
uncommunicative.  This  hinted  reproach,  but  it  was 
modified  with  "  Poor  girl !  "  With  some  uneasiness, 
Geoffrey  felt  that  this  might  be  a  hint  of  reproach 
to  him.  He  was  on  the  point  of  asking  what  the 
nature  of  any  expected  communication  might  be,  but 
refrained.  The  parting  was  affable,  Mrs.  Wibberley 
inclining  to  graciousness  and  Wibberley  to  indulgence. 
He  went  home  seriously  and  let  himself  in  with  his 
latchkey.  It  was  not  very  late,  and  he  saw  by  the 
light  in  the  sitting-room  that  Mary  was  there,  as  he 
went  upstairs  to  wash  his  hands.  She  called  out  to 
him  and  they  had  a  shouted  colloquy  about  his  re- 
quirements for  supper ;  it  was  pleasant  and  reassuring. 
And  then,  as  he  toweled,  he  found  himself  reciting 
Shakespeare  as  he  had  done  so  often  in  his  bedroom 
ever  since  he  was  a  boy.  This  time  his  wayward, 
instinctive  choice  was  Othello's  renunciation  of  war, 
and  he  gave  out  some  of  the  great  phrases  ringingly— 

"  The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war." 

Glorious  war!  And  how  had  it  got  this  noble  repu- 
tation? The  evidence  went  to  show  that  these  old 
wars  were  horrible  affairs  without  even  the  fragments 
of  a  discredited  Hague  Conference  to  mitigate  them. 


PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE  193 

Was  it  a  vast  conspiracy,  involving  the  poets?  Or 
did  they,  indeed,  find  an  overwhelming  glory  in  this 
scorn  of  life  which  was,  deeply,  a  pride  of  life?  He 
heard  Mary's  voice  calling  to  him  to  hasten  if  he 
would  have  hot  food. 

When  he  got  downstairs  he  found  Milly  Warde 
with  Mary,  without  her  hat  and  very  much  at  home. 
A  tray  was  brought  into  the  sitting-room  and  they 
ministered  to  him  together.  Milly  said :  "  Didn't  I  hear 
you  singing?"  and  he  replied:  "Spouting  verse.  An 
old  habit."  He  looked  at  Mary  smilingly,  for  it  was 
yet  a  consciousness  between  them.  "  What  was  the 
verse  this  time  ?  "  said  Milly ;  "  I'm  a  tactless,  curious 
person,  and  not  afraid  of  asking  questions." 

He  thundered  some  of  Othello's  lines  at  her,  and 
Mary  looked  at  him  intently.  "  But  you're  not  saying 
farewell  to  war,"  said  Milly.  "  It's  the  other  way  ?  " 

They  both  waited.  "  I  shall  have  to  go,  I  suppose," 
he  said.  The  phrasing  was  pointedly  unheroic,  com- 
ing after  the  grandiose  Shakespeare  manner,  but  the 
fact  was  there.  Milly  glanced  rapidly  at  Mary,  who 
retained  the  vestiges  of  a  smile. 

Then  Geoffrey  was  slightly  disconcerted  to  see  that 
Milly  had  clasped  her  hands  and  assumed  what  might 
be  called  a  rapt  expression ;  this  is  not  putting  it  gen- 
erously, but  he  didn't  want  to  join  in  heroics  with 
Milly,  preferring  with  her  the  lower  slopes  of  good 
fellowship. 

And  then  he  began  to  talk  at  large  rather  nervously. 
"  I  dare  say  it'll  do  some  of  us  good,"  he  said.  "  We 
want  rousing.  We  can't  all  get  a  man's  share  of  ad- 


194.  TRUE  LOVE 

venture.  A  chosen  few  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth 
while  most  of  us  never  get  away  from  the  suburbs, 
but  a  war  like  this  is  a  bit  excessive.  It's  to  burn 
down  the  house  for  a  bit  of  roast  pig.  And  we've 
death  in  the  world  anyhow.  If  we  hadn't  it  might 
be  necessary  to  invent  it.  We  must  fight  for  our 
side.  Mary  doesn't  think  so.  There  are  no  difficul- 
ties for  her.  She  doesn't  think  much  of  our  great 
possessions.  All  the  dynasties,  ramifications  of  poli- 
tics, commerce,  races,  she  puts  aside.  She  belongs 
to  a  world  of  simple  folk  desiring  peace.  And  you 
can't  answer  her.  I'm  like  that,  too,  but  when  you  find 
yourself  out  in  the  world  it's  different." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  like  this  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"  There  are  times,"  cried  Geoffrey,  "  when  one 
should  talk  freely,  experimentally,  according  to  the 
mood,  and  care  nothing  about  recording  angels.  We're 
all  so  much  afraid  of  committing  ourselves,  of  being 
inconsistent.  It  doesn't  matter.  What  does  matter  is 
that  we  should  give  every  thought  and  feeling  its 
chance.  Now,  I'm  a  bit  of  a  Christian — among  other 
things.  I've  advanced  on  that  line — had  a  look  at 
things  from  that  point  of  view.  Ah!  how  simple  it 
would  be  if  we  were  all  Christians!  There  would 
be  no  war." 

"  That's  obvious,"  said  Milly.  She  was  puzzled  and 
disconcerted  by  him. 

"Not  quite  so-  obvious  as  you  think,  Milly,"  he 
said.  "  I  don't  mean  if  the  Germans  were  Christians, 
but  if  we  were.  We  should  just  turn  the  other  cheek 
and  leti  them  march. over  us  if  they  wanted  to.  I've 


PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE  195 

thought  about  it  and  that's  what  I  make  Christianity 
to  be.  But,  of  course,  we  can't  do  that,  and  Christi- 
anity is  far  too  big  a  thing  to  be  abandoned  suddenly. 
So  we  try  to  keep  something  of  its  spirit  while  we 
act  clean  against  it.  Or  we  throw  the  whole  thing 
over.  They're  beginning  to  tell  us  in  sermons  now 
that  '  Love  your  enemies '  doesn't  apply  to  Germans. 
And  do  you  know  what  I  heard  the  other  day? 
'  Father,  forgive  them  not  for  they  know  what  they 
do.'  Infamous  travesty." 

"  They  are  doing  things  that  cannot  be  forgiven," 
said  Milly  sullenly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  I  can  feel  like  that  and  yet, 
logically,  ;t's  absurd.  There's  no  sense  in  forgiving 
a  pin-prick  and  not  forgiving  a  murder.  Imagine  a 
God  who  would  forgive  one  and  not  the  other !  I'm 
only  human.  I'm  beginning  to  hate  the  Germans 
quite  in  the  orthodox  way." 

"Well,  anyhow  you're  going?"  said  Milly. 

"  Don't  hurry  me,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  have  my 
sensations.  Let  me  pretend  that  I'm  hesitating  on 
the  brink.  Do  remember  that  I'm  an  artist." 

"  How  can  you  talk  like  this  while  Mary's  waiting 
to  know  ?  "  said  Milly. 

"  Mary  does  know,"  he  said. 

"  Let  him  talk,"  said  Mary.  "  I  don't  know  every- 
thing." 

"  I  hope  I'm  not  conceding  to  bluster  and  conven- 
tion," said  Geoffrey.  "  There  are  people  who  bow 
before  the  storm  and  protest  secretly,  but  I'd  like  to 
be  honest.  I  hate  most  of  what's  said  and  written 


196  TRUE  LOVE 

about  the  war,  and  I  look  forward  with  horror  to  a 
world  of  drill,  preparation,  competition,  afterwards. 
To  be  unforgiving,  to  be  perpetually  suspicious — 
there's  no  way  out  of  it  and  it's  horrible.  You  think 
I'm  talking  like  a  peace-at-any-price  person,  Milly. 
I'm  nearly  that,  but  not  quite.  And  I'm  a  thousand 
miles  away.  I'm  an  artist — passionately  on  both  sides ; 
on  the  wrong  side  too.  We  are  to  be  scorned  and 
neglected  in  the  hearty  future.  An  opening  for  patri- 
otic songs,  no  doubt,  and  allegorical  statues  of  victory, 
I  hope.  But  the  man  on  both  sides,  the  man  who 
loves  all — isn't  it  strange  that  Christ  says  nothing 
about  the  artist?  He  didn't  know  there  was  such  a 
thing.  And  yet — they're  an  improvident  lot,  too.  They 
live  as  the  sparrows." 

"  But  you're  going  ?  "  said  Milly. 

"  I'm  going,"  he  said,  "  there's  no  doubt  about  that 
I  mean  to  enlist  to-morrow." 

"Enlist?"  cried  Milly. 

"  Isn't  that  right  ?  "  he  said.  He  shot  a  glance  at 
Mary.  "  There's  an  argument  against  it.  I'm  intelli- 
gent enough  to  make  an  officer.  I  know.  Don't  bother 
me  by  repeating  it.  I've  decided." 

"  It's  splendid  of  you,"  said  Milly.  She  had  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  it's  just  simple,"  he  said ;  "  I'm  pretty  simple 
in  the  upshot.  A  certain  amount  of  preliminary  talk, 
no  doubt."  Milly's  emotion  made  him  uneasy  and  he 
was  sincerely  anxious  to  keep  within  hail  of  the 
matter-of-fact.  And  the  two-  women,  he  knew,  were 
reacting  on  one,  another.  In  opinion  and  policy  they 


PREPARING  TO  PLUNGE  197 

might  be  far  apart,  but  their  emotions  ran  together. 
He  had  no  room  now  for  sentiment  with  Milly,  and 
it  was  embarrassing  to  have  her  here  with  Mary; 
it  made  him  cold  and  cautious.  It  was  with  a  sort 
of  moral  indignation  that  he  thought  of  Mary  ready 
to  acquiesce  in  his  marrying  the  useful,  faithful  Milly, 
and  ready  to  balk  him  of  his  spiritual  adventure  with 
the  incalculable  Sibyl.  Poor  Milly!  In  such  a  case 
the  friendly  compromise  may  be  worse  than  nothing, 
and  yet  he  was  ready  for  friendship ;  it  was  only  that 
plaguey  sex  that  stood  in  the  way. 

And  when  she  had  gone,  Mary  was  extraordinarily 
gentle  and  affectionate  to  him.  "  I  can't  do  anything 
else,"  he  said  to  her.  "  I  must  go."  She  said :  "  Of 
course  you  must  go.  I  know  that.  Think  of  me  as 
helping  you  all  I  can."  And  where,  he  wondered,  was 
Sibyl  in  her  mind? 


CHAPTER  XIV 
ANTI-CLIMAX 

"ANTI-CLIMAX,"  muttered  Geoffrey.     "Anti-climax. 
Good  Lord." 

He  was  returning  from  his  medical  examination, 
having  been  rejected,  and  he  walked  with  a  dull,  even 
step,  like  a  man  slightly  drunk  who  will  take  no 
chances.  His  rush  up  the  stairs  at  the  office  had 
sometimes  been  a  joke  with  his  colleagues — "  the  aerial 
flight,"  Attar  had  called  it — but  to-day  he  went  up  like 
an  automaton  that  would  want  winding  up  again 
directly.  No  tragical  matter,  of  course,  but  for  a 
young  man — a  youngish  man ;  he  corrected  his  thought 
rather  bitterly — the  physical  degradation  is  humiliat- 
ing. That  wasn't  all,  however,  for  he  was  conscious, 
too,  of  a  deep,  obscure  glow  of  relief  that  his  honesty 
translated  into  a  moral  humiliation.  He  had  taken  a 
high  hand  with  himself;  he  had  delivered  himself  to 
the  machine;  and  now  it  had  cast  him  out  again  to 
his  doubts  and  hesitations  and  all  the  struggling  com- 
plexities of  his  nature.  He  had  felt  strong,  but  now 
he  recalled  the  timidities  of  his  youth.  He  had 
sometimes  found  it  hard  to  follow  the  lead  of  the 
bold  spirits,  though  he  would  not  rank  himself  be- 
neath them;  he  had  known  evasions,  he  had  forced 
himself  to  the  ordeal.  As  a  youth  he  was  eager  to 


ANTI-CLIMAX  199 

excel,  and  yet  on  the  cricket-field  when  he  waited 
for  his  innings  he  had  sometimes  seen  the  rain  be- 
gin with  relief ;  perhaps  there  was  faint  chagrin  at 
the  lost  opportunity,  but  he  could  not  disguise  from 
himself,  though  he  must  from  others,  that  despicable 
relief  that  the  nervous,  self-conscious  spirit  feels  in 
its  effacement.  The  point  of  honor  drove  him  on, 
and  the  knowledge  of  his  deeper  inclinations;  it  was 
characteristic  that  if  he  had  the  choice  he  would 
always  bat  first,  and  that  then  he  would  choose,  if 
he  could,  to  take  the  first  ball.  And  yet  in  this  shy, 
pulsating  youth  of  his  he  had  known  the  joys  of 
fearlessness,  of  the  streaming  of  the  scarlet  banner. 
"  Get  your  blood  up,  Geoffrey,"  had  been  a  family 
exhortation.  There  was  the  joke  against  him  that 
once  when  he  was  a  little  boy  confronted  with  a  too 
liberal  helping  his  mother  had  said :  "  Can't  you  eat 
your  pudding,  Geoff  ? "  To  which  he  had  replied : 
"  Wait  till  I  get  my  spirits  up."  He  would  write 
masterpieces  if  he  could  but  keep  his  spirits  up. 

He  climbed  heavily  to  his  room  and  sat  down  at 
his  desk  to  stare  at  the  familiar  chimney-stacks  on 
the  roof  opposite.  He  was  half -conscious  of  their  de- 
tail and  they  looked  dull  to-day,  but  he  remembered 
how  in  twilight  an  enthusiasm  vaguely  related  to  the 
plastic  arts  had  seen  them  portentous  and  menacing. 
He  had  to  think  now,  and,  when  he  tried  to  abstract 
his  mind  from  the  recent  impressions  that  were  so 
vivid,  irrelevancies  intruded.  Those  chimney-stacks, 
for  instance,  and  the  man  who  was  now  cleaning  the 
windows  below  them  at  the  peril  of  his  Itfe;  so  it 


200  TRUE  LOVE 

always  seems,  and  Geoffrey  got  up  again  to  look  down 
into  the  street  to  consider  what  the  fall  would  be. 
Perhaps  the  man's  wife  would  get  him  to  join  the 
army  as  the  safer  occupation.  Had  she  ever  seen  him 
at  his  work  and  was  she  haunted  by  it?  No  doubt 
the  danger  is  very  much  an  illusion  and  the  dangers 
of  the  battlefield  are  real. 

If  that  fellow  slipped  and  came  upon  the  pavement 
a  sack  of  bones,  what  a  wonderful  simplification  it 
would  be  for  him !  Really  he  was  quite  handy  if  one 
wanted  to  realize  the  imminence  of  death.  The  gallant 
rabble  trailing  now  up  Market  Street  behind  the  brass 
band  had  yet  but  a  distant,  romantic  connection  with 
it,  though  they  might  get  there  first.  And  he  might 
have  been  marching  there.  Perhaps  he  would  march 
there  yet. 

The  medical  examination  had  been  amusing  up  to  a 
point.  With  three  other  men  Geoffrey  was  told  to 
strip,  and  the  affair  took  on  a  queer  resemblance  to 
some  preparation  for  athletics.  As  naked  as  new-born 
babes  the  four  were  set  trotting  round  the  room  while 
the  two  doctors  watched  them,  and  then  it  seemed  a 
very  queer  game  indeed.  It  was  a  strange  experience, 
a  plunge  into  the  unknown,  and,  though  one  or  two 
of  the  men  lacked  charm  in  such  physical  intimacy — 
one  was  downright  dirty — Geoffrey  was  slightly  elated 
to  find  how  calmly  he  could  endure  such  an  ordeal. 
The  various  soundings  and  probings  were  slightly  dis- 
agreeable. His  body  was  not  being  treated  with  re- 
spect, and  he  could  not  help  remembering  how  differ- 
ently he  had  been  handled  when  a  guinea  had  lubri- 


ANTI-CLIMAX  201 

cated  the  occasion.  Of  course  these  doctors  were 
working  hastily,  and  it  was  too  much  to  expect  that 
they  should  have  solved  the  problem  of  manners. 
Trifles,  trifles.  He  mustn't  be  sensitive  now.  Or 
yes.  He  must  conceal  a  perfect  delicacy  of  sensitive- 
ness under  a  stoical  exterior.  This  military  life  is  a 
matter  of  exteriors  and  those  of  the  civilized  who 
endure  it  must  have  a  refuge  in  irony.  To  hold  the 
critical  in  abeyance  is  to  cultivate  the  ironical.  Thank 
God  for  irony. 

He  had  hardly  thought  of  rejection,  but  he  became 
conscious  of  a  doubt.  Examinations  that  in  the  other 
cases  had  seemed  almost  perfunctory,  became  careful 
in  his  case,  and  he  was  cross-examined  briefly  about 
habits  and  endurances.  To  his  astonishment  he  was 
rejected  and  he  wanted  to  know  why.  It  appeared 
that  these  doctors  were  unwilling  to  stray  beyond 
their  particular  job,  which  was  that  of  plain  accept- 
ance or  rejection.  However,  one  of  them  told  Geof- 
frey that  he  had  varicose  veins.  "  I  mustn't  dispute 
it,  of  course,"  said  Geoffrey,  "but  I  can  walk  forty 
miles  on  the  hills  without  finding  it  out."  The  two 
held  a  whispered  consultation  and  then  the  elder  said : 
"  If  you're  keen  you  can  have  the  operation.  It's  not 
a  big  thing.  There's  another  point.  You've  a  slight 
rupture.  Didn't  know,  perhaps?  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  your  heart  is  only  middling.  So  far  as  that  goes 
we  should  have  passed  you,  though." 

There  was  an  air  of  finality  about  this,  but  Geoffrey 
would  not  have  it  so.  "  Be  good  enough  to  tell  me  a 
little  more,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  advise  ?  " 


202  TRUE  LOVE 

"  Our  business  is  to  pass  you  or  to  reject  you,"  said 
the  other  doctor.  "  We  have  rejected  you." 

A  certain  tension  had  arisen.  The  doctors  were 
overworked  and  irritable,  Geoffrey  was  affronted  and 
irritable.  "  These  are  army  methods,  I  suppose,"  he 
said.  "  Damn  the  army." 

"  Get  out,"  said  the  younger  doctor,  but  the  elder 
one  intervened  with,  "  What's  your  grievance  ?  " 

"Your  infernal  manners,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  We  haven't  time  for  manners.    What's  the  point  ?  " 

Geoffrey  reflected.  "  I  understand  I  could  have 
these  things  put  right.  You  say  my  heart's  mid- 
dling?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  you  can't  stop  there.  Do  you  mean  tnat 
an  operation  would  be  dangerous?" 

"  I  don't  say  that." 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"  It's  your  own  business  to  decide.  Consult  a  sur- 
geon. Or  an  all  round  if  you  like,  Burditt,  for  in- 
stance. I  think  you'd  be  all  right." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Can  you  put  it  in 
the  form  of  chances — odds?" 

"  Oh !    Well,  ten  to  one  you'd  be  all  right." 

"  Five  to  one,  anyway,"  said  the  younger  man. 

"  Call  it  fifteen  to  two,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  There's  another  point,"  said  the  elder.  "  It's  con- 
ceivable that  if  you're  wounded  badly  you  might  have 
a  poorer  chance  than  some  of  the  others." 

"  I  see,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I'm  greatly  obliged  to 
you." 


ANTI-CLIMAX  203 

The  two  doctors  had  relaxed  alittle.  Perhaps  this 
slight  interruption  of  their  routine  had  given  them 
some  relief.  It  was  almost  pleasantly  that  the  younger 
said :  "  Still  keen  on  it  ?  "  Geoffrey  turned  to  look  at 
him  and  melted  a  little  himself  as  he  noted  the  tired 
eyes  of  this  sallow,  sharp-featured  young  man  lolling 
in  his  chair  with  a  momentary  clutch  at  rest  and  ease. 

"  Then,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  the  proper  course  is  to 
consult  a  specialist." 

"  Quite  the  proper  course,"  said  the  elder. 

"  The  proper  course  appeals  to  you  ? "  said  the 
younger. 

Geoffrey  looked  at  him  with  interest.  "  I  shouldn't 
join  the  army  for  fun." 

The  young  doctor  nodded.  "Well,"  he  said,  "we 
may  be  passing  men  like  you  without  compunction 
before  we're  through." 

The  sight  of  an  orderly  at  the  door  seemed  to  touch 
a  spring  in  the  doctors,  and  their  renewed  activities 
excluded  further  acknowledgments  or  farewells. 
Geoffrey  got  away  briskly,  but  fell  very  soon  into  a 
heavy  meditation.  On  the  facts  of  the  case  he  was 
a  decently  eager  volunteer  disappointed,  but  he  didn't 
feel  like  that.  Indeed,  he  found  it  impossible  to  sort 
out  his  feelings;  consternation,  apprehension,  and  re- 
lief contended,  and  doggedly,  sullenly,  he  tried  to  fix 
his  mind  on  that  proper  course  which  is  the  clue  in 
such  labyrinths.  His  habit  of  qualifying  suggested 
that  the  present,  the  particular  experience,  must  not 
be  merged  altogether  in  the  general,  the  axiomatic, 
but  at  the  back  of  all  there  was  an  almost  weary 


204  TRUE  LOVE 

acquiescence  in  his  custom  of  trying  to  do  the  right 
thing.  He  must  go  to  that  specialist;  and  yet  it 
occurred  to  him  that  even  specialists  will  sometimes 
take  a  hint  from  the  patient  in  practical  matters. 

He  gazed  at  the  chimney-stacks  and  decided  that  he 
would  take  a  day  or  two  to  think  things  over;  one's 
mind  gets  to  right  conclusions  by  subconscious  ways. 
If  he  did  consult  any  one  it  might  as  well  be  Burditt ; 
it  would  be  a  simple  matter  to  telephone  to  him  and 
make  an  appointment.  The  telephone  book  lay  on 
Geoffrey's  desk  and  he  looked  up  Burditt's  number, 
though  there  was  no  present  reason  why  he  should 
do  so.  And  the  receiver  stood  on  the  desk  too. 

A  civilized  man,  hating  war  and  despising  military 
enthusiasms,  has  no  call  to  force  himself  into  the 
heroic.  His  reason  may  tell  him  that  as  a  good  citizen 
— as  a  patriot,  if  you  like — he  must  be  staunch  to  his 
country  while  he  believes  it  is,  on  the  whole,  on  the 
side  of  righteousness.  To  rush  for  the  adventure 
against  his  own  nature  and  inclination  would  be  a 
kind  of  vulgarity.  But  if  you  are  naturally  fearless 
and  an  adventurer  ?  Would  manners  demand  that  the 
hero  should  school  himself  to  mere  duty?  Must  he, 
for  instance,  avoid  the  Victoria  Cross  and  regard  the 
D.S.O.  as  the  extreme  limit  of  decoration?  Geoffrey 
was  not  without  humor. 

He  had  a  decent  excuse,  certainly,  for  avoiding  the 
whole  thing.  He  had  answered  the  call  reasonably  and 
promptly.  He  had  fulfilled  the  conditions  that  he 
would  exact  from  himself.  And  there  was  on  the 
one  hand  a  vision,  even  now  forming  itself,  of  terror 


ANTI-CLIMAX  205 

and  agony,  of  hard  and  bitter  ways  to  death ;  and  on 
the  other  of  the  pleasant  life,  taking  on  an  aspect 
strangely  precious,  of  passion  and  romance.  He  was 
not  of  the  heroic  mold ;  he  knew  that  very  well.  Your 
hero  sounds  his  drums  and  trumpets  boldly  and  cheer- 
fully, he  is  not  bothered  by  this  cursed  habit  of  intro- 
spection, he  sleeps  when  he  is  tired,  rises  refreshed 
at  the  reveille,  lives  in  the  moment,  has  unclouded 
hours.  What  would  such  a  one  say  to  this  decent 
excuse,  this  excellent  excuse?  He  would  acquiesce, 
perhaps,  but  with  chagrin,  with  lamentations  on  his 
luck. 

Geoffrey  had  always  been  a  little  bothered  by  the 
heroic,  and  as  a  boy,  when  he  fiercely  idealized  him- 
self, he  had  wondered  whether  it  would  indeed  be 
exacted  of  him.  Perhaps  it  was  all  a  matter  of  de- 
fective circulation.  "  Let  us  get  our  blood  up,"  he 
said  aloud,  and  he  gave  the  desk  a  thump  with  his 
fist.  It  shook  a  slight,  tremulous  tingle  out  of  the 
telephone  bell.  He  took  the  receiver  off  the  hook 
and  gave-  Dr.  Burditt's  number.  It  appeared  that 
Dr.  Burditt  was  going  away  and  would  not  be  able 
to  make  an  appointment  at  present,  but  "  Wait  a 
moment,"  said  the  voice,  and  then  there  was  a  pause 
which  Geoffrey,  with  sham  melodramatic  humor, 
interpreted  as  heavy  with  fate.  A  strong,  even, 
masculine  voice  broke  it.  If  he  could  come  across 
now  Burditt  would  see  him.  "  In  ten  minutes,"  said 
Geoffrey,  and  hurried  over. 

The  examination  was  very  much  on  the  lines  of  that 
to  which  he  had  already  submitted,  and  Geoffrey  would 


206  TRUE  LOVE 

have  liked  to  ask  Burditt,  but  did  not,  whether  there 
was  much  difference  in  such  matters  between  the 
specialist  and  the  intelligent  general  practitioner.  Ex- 
perience tells,  no  doubt,  in  the  perception  of  fine 
shades,  and  in  the  delicate  human  machine  fine  shades 
matter.  Geoffrey  explained  the  circumstances,  and 
Burditt  nodded  sympathetically.  "  What  I  want  to 
know  is  this,"  said  Geoffrey ;  "  can  my  heart  be  good 
enough  for  service  and  not  good  enough  to  stand  an 
operation  ?  " 

"  Seems  unlikely,  doesn't  it  ?  "  said  Burditt. 

And  yet  when  Geoffrey  went  away  he  had  not 
reached  anything  very  definite.  It  came  upon  him 
annoy ingly  that  he  hadn't  a  clear  formula  to  go  on. 
Burditt  had  taken  so  much  time  over  the  examination 
that  the  finalities  had  been  rather  hurried,  and  now 
he  and  his  car  had  disappeared.  There  had  been  a 
general  air  of  reassurance  wtih  considerable  qualifica- 
tions, leaving,  as  it  seemed  to  Geoffrey,  a  margin  for 
the  exercise  of  his  own  free  will.  "  I've  a  reasonable 
excuse  to  get  out  of  it  ?  "  he  had  said,  and  Burditt 
had  replied,  "  An  ample  excuse." 

"  Give  me  your  advice,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  I  should  have  less  apprehension  about  this  opera- 
tion than  about  the  strain  of  army  life  generally. 
You'd  get  a  commission  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  I  can't  advise  operation  in  the  circumstances." 

"  Pardon  my  putting  it  so :  what  would  you  do  your- 
self?" 

Burditt  gazed  intently  at  Geoffrey  and  then  his  eyes 


ANTI-CLIMAX  207 

turned  to  the  mantelpiece,  where,  following  them, 
Geoffrey  saw  the  photograph  of  a  group  of  two  or 
three  children  with  mother  and  father.  Burditt  looked 
at  this  as  though  his  family  would  help  him  to  a  de- 
cision. He  was  older  now  than  the  man  represented 
there,  he  was  worn  and  jaded,  yet  he  seemed  flushed 
and  restless ;  the  precision  of  his  professional  manner 
had  gone.  He  turned  again  to  Geoffrey.  "  What 
would  I  do?  I  would  get  at  the  devils  at  any  cost." 

"  I  don't  go  into  it  in  that  spirit,"  said  Geoffrey. 

Burditt  stood  like  a  man  making  a  great  effort. 
"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said.  He  looked  at  his 
watch  and  started  into  activity.  They  went  out  into 
the  street  together. 

It  was  lunch  time,  and  Geoffrey  paid  one  of  his 
rare  visits  to  his  club,  conscious  as  he  was,  and  per- 
haps overconscious,  of  a  smoldering  hostility  there 
that  embraced  even  the  insignificant  upon  the  Herald. 
Yet  now  its  attitude  was  correct,  its  spirit  was  ex- 
alted, and  Round  and  the  others  had  set  the  highest 
standard  of  intelligent  commentary  on  the  campaign. 
Politeness  was  its  due  and  generally  Geoffrey  re- 
ceived it.  The  news  he  heard  was  that  Burditt's  son 
had  been  killed  and  that  Burditt  had  taken  an  army 
appointment. 

Entering  the  grill-room,  the  first  man  he  saw  was 
Sewell  and  he  sat  down  beside  him.  Really,  this  was 
fate,  it  was  a  call,  a  decision  of  the  gods.  He  had 
always  thought  that  if  anything  of  the  kind  were 
necessary,  Sewell  was  the  man  for  him;  it  was  not 
only  that  he  had  the  reputation  for  enormous  com- 


208  TRUE  LOVE 

petence,  but  there  was  a  personal  sparkle  about  him 
that  Geoffrey  liked.  Sparkle  may  not  be  precisely 
the  quality  you  demand  for  one  who  is  to  make 
incursions  into  your  inside,  but  a  surgeon  who  wields 
the  knife  with  a  flourish  is  a  diverting  figure.  Geof- 
frey had  heard  of  Sewell  operating  before  his  stu- 
dents with  gestures  that  approached  levity;  the  knife 
waved  aloft,  the  victim  waiting,  the  nurses  slightly 
scandalized,  the  audience  appreciative.  It  was  the 
swagger  of  a  natural  flamboyancy.  He  wore  a  hand- 
some diamond  ring  unblushingly,  he  had  been  seen 
in  trousers  of  almost  a  fancy  pattern,  he  didn't  seem 
to  care  whether  in  these  matters  of  labeling  he  was 
quite  a  gentleman  or  not.  There  was  the  astonishing 
trait:  he  was  a  man  of  the  middle  class  and  not 
obsessed  by  the  idea  of  being  a  strictly-patterned 
gentleman.  A  good  fellow  enough;  Geoffrey  had 
always  liked  Sewell.  He  wasn't  vulgar.  He  had  a 
natural  charm  struggling  through  bonds  of  manners 
and  etiquette.  He  was  one  of  the  few  Englishmen 
who  could  maintain  gaiety.  And  always  there  was 
that  astonishing  competence.  Geoffrey  had  once 
heard  him  say :  "  There  isn't  such  a  thing  as  brilliant 
surgery.  Of  course  one  man  may  work  faster  than 
another,  or  he  may  take  more  risks." 

Sewell  told  him  that  he,  too,  was  expecting  an 
appointment.  It  would  be  interesting  to  see  Sewell 
under  stress  of  great  calamity.  He  would  face  war 
in  his  own  spirit,  but  what  would  be  the  aspect  of 
that  spirit?  One  could  imagine  beneficence  with  a 
gallant  twist  to  it.  They  talked  of  Burditt.  It  was 


ANTI-CLIMAX  209 

his  idea,  Sewell  said,  to  put  hfs  son  in  the  army. 
The  poor  lad  had  not  been  very  keen  on  it  and  the 
mother  had  opposed  and  opposed.  Burditt  had  be- 
lieved that  war  was  coming;  he  had  been  fanatic 
on  the  subject  of  Germany.  "  I  used  to  tell  him  it 
was  all  gammon,"  said  Sewell,  "and  he  got  furiously 
prophetic.  You  wouldn't  know  now  that  he  was 
any  less  blind  than  the  rest  of  us ;  he  never  says  '  I 
told  you  so.' " 

Geoffrey  mentioned  that  he  had  just  seen  him,  and 
told  what  he  had  said  of  the  Germans.  "  Yes,"  said 
Sewell,  "  he  would  like  to  fight  and  has  been  thinking 
of  a  commission  in  the  line.  He's  given  up  the  idea. 
But  he's  implacably  anti-German." 

"  He  may  have  to  doctor  their  wounded,"  said 
Geoffrey. 

"  A  wounded  man  is  a  wounded  man,"  said  Sewell. 
"You  can't  tie  up  an  artery  resentfully."  He  was 
in  favor  of  making  it  up  with  Germany  eventually. 
"  We  shall  never  brew  a  decent  lager  here,"  he  said. 

In  the  smoke-room,  Geoffrey  introduced  his  subject, 
and  the  arrangements  were  made  in  five  minutes  over 
a  cup  of  coffee.  The  question  of  local  anaesthetic  was 
rather  lightly  dismissed.  Sewell  listened  carefully  to 
all  that  the  other  doctors  had  said,  and  his  hand 
seemed  to  stray  casually  to  Geoffrey's  wrist  as  they 
sat  side  by  side.  He  felt  the  pulse  and  said  he  thought 
it  would  be  all  right,  that,  anyhow,  he  would  trust 
Gough,  his  anaesthetist,  against  the  world  in  this  mat- 
ter. "  He  can  tickle  a  dead  man  through,"  said  Sewell 
cheerfully.  It  seemed  an  easy,  friendly  arrangement 


210  TRUE  LOVE 

and  as  good  as  done.  With  reserves  of  apprehension 
in  his  heart  Geoffrey  felt  that  it  was  not  very  difficult 
to  be  a  man  amongst  men. 

Mary  listened  steadily  when  he  told  her  about  it, 
and  it  did  not  appear  to  occur  to  her  that  he  could 
do  any  less.  If  you  thought  it  right  to  go  to  the  war 
you  must  go  if  you  could  crawl  there.  Geoffrey  had 
a  glimpse  of  his  sister,  again,  as  an  implacable  creature, 
with  all  her  fine  sympathies.  With  perturbations  and 
hesitations  and  a  grim  struggle  you  arrived  at  the 
point  where  she  confidently  awaited  you.  The  con- 
fidence was  a  tribute,  certainly,  but  so  much  was 
taken  as  a  matter  of  course;  a  weak  mortal  looks 
for  a  little  particular  encouragement.  He  felt  this 
and  knew  it  was  unworthy;  he  meant  to  live  up  to 
the  ideal,  and  wondered  whether  a  breakdown  would 
find  her  ruthless  in  admonition  or  instantly  and  deeply 
in  sympathy.  He  perceived  that  she  was  shyly  re- 
sentful of  the  indignities  that  his  body  must  suffer. 
She  listened  gravely  to  his  rueful  jocularities  about 
finding  himself  to  be  an  old  crock.  He  pressed  them 
whimsically,  wilfully  against  her  mood,  as  if  in  de- 
fense. In  burlesque  he  quoted :  "  Phoebus  Apollo  was 
operated  on  for  appendicitis  yesterday  and  is  doing 
well."  She  had  a  shrinking  interest,  certainly  not 
morbid,  in  the  operation.  He  wondered  what  Sewell 
would  think  of  her  idea  of  the  temple  defaced.  "  We 
are  realists,"  he  said,  "  whether  we  would  or  not." 
She  bowed  her  head  in  assent. 

Geoffrey  spent  a  few  days  in  uncomfortable  an- 
ticipation. He  was  not  one  of  those  who  can  rule 


ANTI-CLIMAX  211 

their  minds,  dismissing  the  inopportune ;  there  is  none 
who  can  do  so  absolutely,  but  some  can  make  a  much 
better  attempt  than  others.  He  had  read  a  little 
sketch  by  Dixon  Scott  in  which  "  The  Shadow  "  of 
a  coming  operation  of  doubtful  issue  had  stimulated 
the  man  to  the  keenest  zest  in  the  life  still  within  his 
clutch ;  he  had  read  and  admired  it,  wondering  whether, 
in  like  case,  he  could  live  up  to  its  brilliant  promise. 
He  could  not,  and  yet  he  believed  it  to  be  true;  in 
humility  he  tried  to  encourage  the  baffled,  wavering 
beginnings  of  what  in  the  strong  spirit  would  have 
been  a  free  growth.  He  pottered  about  his  rather 
dismal  suburban  garden  in  dull  weather  and  made  his 
poor,  wistful  attempt  to  emulate  the  heroic  tempera- 
ment, to  exult  in  the  high  flame ;  but  he  failed  in  zest 
while  conscious  always  of  life's  pathetic,  precarious 
sweetness.  Once  or  twice  he  puzzled  Mary  by  an 
artificial  buoyancy.  She  looked  merely  for  steadfast- 
ness and  that  she  should  have. 

He  went  into  the  nursing-home  the  night  before 
in  order  to  be  ready  early  in  the  morning.  And  there 
he  spent  a  night  of  deep  discomfort;  he  couldn't  get 
out  of  his  head  a  phrase  read  casually  in  a  newspaper 
about  a  famous  criminal  who  had  retired  to  rest  the 
night  before  his  execution  "  in  a  state  of  extreme 
depression."  The  moderation  of  this  was  arresting. 
And  now  he  realized  something  of  what  it  meant.  Of 
course,  the  comparison  was  absurd,  and  his  reason 
told  him  that  these  doctors  would  never  let  him  run 
a  great  risk  when  it  was  really  quite  unnecessary. 
There  was  no  cause  for  serious  apprehension,  but 


212  TRUE  LOVE 

reason  has  a  poor  chance  against  feeling  in  the  night 
watches  when  you  are  tossing  on  a  strange  bed.  In 
the  arid  little  room  and  with  his  prospect  he  felt 
himself  abandoned  to  this  damned  professionalism ; 
there  was  slight  comfort  in  thinking  or  even  in  mutter- 
ing an  oath  or  two.  Perhaps  other  patients  were 
feeling  very  much  as  he  did,  but  he  had  no  vision 
of  them;  it  was  at  best  a  shadowy  comradeship.  He 
wished  for  the  dawn,  he  drowsed  a  little,  he  awoke. 

And  then  there  came  upon  him,  unprepared,  the 
strong  desire  to  be  out  of  it.  This  was  a  burden 
greater  than  he  could  bear;  it  was  useless  for  him  to 
masquerade  as  a  hero.  And  it  was  so  entirely  un- 
necessary. He  was  a  fool,  a  wretched  fool,  and  he 
had  brought  himself  into  an  impossible  position.  He 
wasn't  what  he  had  pretended  to  be.  Probably  he 
was  an  exceptionally  weak  and  morbidly  sensitive 
man.  Others  couldn't  feel  like  this  before  a  trumpery 
operation.  It  was  devilish  awkward  to  cry  off, 
though.  It  couldn't  be  done. 

Despising  himself,  he  knew  it  couldn't  be  done. 
Morally  he  was  ready  to  do  it,  but  it  couldn't  be  done. 
Just  a  little  bit  of  silly  pride  was  in  the  way.  You 
couldn't  announce  to  a  nurse  that  you  had  decided  to 
slip  out  by  the  back  door.  To  think  of  Sewell  at  the 
club  was  to  know  that  hesitation  now  was  ridiculous. 

He  had  relapses.  It  was  a  miserable  night.  He 
was  very  bad  when  the  idea  came  to  him  that  this 
was  like  Christ's  agony  in  the  garden.  'The  small 
compared  with  the  great,  of  course ;  he  was  naturally 
apologetic  for  perceiving  the  analogy.  Ah!  and  with 


ANTI-CLIMAX  213 

Christ  it  was  the  cry  of  weakness  through  strength. 
He  knew,  as  Christ  knew,  that  he  must  go  through 
with  it.  He  couldn't  fail.  It  was  only  playing  with 
an  idea,  after  all. 

In  the  morning  he  was  much  better  and,  though  he 
felt  horribly  uncertain,  he  had  moments  of  elation 
when  he  felt  that  he  could  keep  his  form  all  right. 
He  shaved  himself  and  was  a  little  annoyed  at  a  cut 
which  he  could  not  disguise.  He  was  not  quite  natu- 
ral, but  he  acted  uncommonly  well,  and,  with  himself 
for  audience,  he  brought  off  the  points  to  admiration. 
He  was  gently  jocular  with  the  nurses,  and  with 
Sewell  and  Gough  hit  a  note  of  casual  interest  in  the 
performance.  When  he  walked  into  the  operating- 
room  the  surgeon  and  anaesthetist  were  talking  together 
earnestly.  It  gave  him  a  slight  scare  when  they  fell 
apart  like  conspirators  discovered — so  grossly  did  his 
mood  exaggerate — but  he  had  a  good  hold  of  himself. 
He  got  upon  the  operating  table  with  a  polite  alacrity, 
and  it  was  only  at  the  last  that  he  had  a  gasping 
doubt.  Even  then  he  was  conscious  of  the  hope  that 
an  instinctive  gesture  of  repulsion,  when  they  held 
the  beastly  stuff  to  his  face,  had  not  been  seen.  Ah ! 
but  he  was  letting  his  precious  life  slip  away,  he  had 
made  a  monstrous  mistake,  they  were  choking  him — 
it  was  that  fellow  Gough  turning  on  the  ether  too 
soon — no,  it  was  Sewell — Sewell  was  no  gentleman — 
he  had  never  thought  Sewell  a  gentleman — to  choke 
a  man — well,  did  it  matter? — death — ? — did  it  matter? 


CHAPTER  XV 
FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL 

HE  came  back  to  life,  to  a  dim  sense  of  life ;  sickness 
but  life,  pain  but  life;  there  was  a  faint,  battered, 
shrouded  elation  somewhere  in  him,  a  shred  of  hope 
which  he  lost  and  recovered,  forgot  and  tried  to  rec- 
ollect. There  was  a  deep  pool  of  unconsciousness 
near  him ;  he  fancied  it  was  just  outside  the  bed  and 
if  he  could  have  stirred  at  all  he  might  have  rolled 
over  into  it.  He  knew  it  was  not  the  same  as  sleep; 
could  it  be  death?  He  had  feared  death,  but  now 
when  it  was  so  near  it  seemed  a  slight  matter,  the 
severing  of  a  hair,  a  little  push.  He  trembled  on  the 
balance  and  death  was  merely  a  little  push.  He  would 
sink  deep  into  that  pool,  he  would  sink  and  sink.  Yet 
in  his  mind  there  was  the  semblance  of  a  choice;  life 
or  death  for  the  asking.  It  didn't  matter  much,  and 
it  was  curious  to  discover  what  a  faint  thing  death 
is.  Not  very  curious.  He  had  always  been  on  the 
side  of  life  and  he  should  choose  life.  If  he  fell 
into  that  pool  there  would  be  a  splash  and  that  was 
pain.  He  was  in  the  clutches  of  pain,  and  pain  forced 
him  to  live;  it  was  not  desire  of  life  but  the  will  to 
live. 

Figures  were  moving  about  his  bed.    Nurses.    Prob- 
ably six  or  seven  of  them.     Evidently  it  had  been 

214 


FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  215 

an  extraordinary  case.  There  must  be  dozens  of 
nurses  there  and  the  doctors  had  gone  away  for  a 
long  holiday.  Sewell  was  not  quite  a  gentleman.  In 
this  case  he  had  behaved  unpardonably  and  it  would 
be  embarrassing  to  meet  him  again.  It  would  be  best 
not  to  make  any  reference  to  what  had  happened. 
Sewell  would  understand,  for  he  had  perceptions;  in 
other  circumstances  he  might  have  been  a  gentleman. 
What  the  deuce  is  it  all  about? 

Later  he  had  the  sensation  of  an  austere  rest.  If 
he  did  not  move  all  might  be  well.  There  was  still 
pain,  but  now  it  seemed  that  pain  was  all  over  him 
and  so  it  was  bearable;  the  unbearable  pain  is  when 
the  parts  get  out  of  focus.  Focus!  He  must  be  re- 
covering when  such  a  word  as  that  came  into  his  mind. 
And  he  had  an  idea  too.  Hell  would  be  bearable 
if  the  heat  were  even  all  round.  Quite  a  witty  idea. 
He  must  tell  Attar  that.  He  was  recovering.  The 
whole  thing  was  a  trifle. 

Thousands  and  thousands  of  men  in  France  were 
going  through  this  and  worse — far  worse.  It  was  a 
damnable  world.  A  brutal,  horrible,  damnable  world. 
But  now  he  was  conscious  of  emphasis,  of  attitude; 
he  couldn't  really  feel  for  all  those  poor  devils. 
He  was  emerging  from  twilight  into  a  daylight  of 
platitude,  he  was  trying  to  think  what  he  ought  to 
think.  To  sympathize  strongly  you  must  be  strong, 
to  imagine  strongly  you  must  be  thrillingly  alive.  He 
was  a  poor,  weak  creature  pumping  up  maudlin  sen- 
timent. No.  They  were  his  comrades  lying  there 
on  the  fields  of  France  and  he  was  wounded  too; 


216  TRUE  LOVE 

he  had  taken  his  wound  freely.  Why  shouldn't  he 
drowse  into  any  sentimental  luxury?  What  had  he 
to  do  with  moral  issues  now  ?  Can  a  man  never  have 
rest? 

A  nurse  stood  clearly  and  tangibly  before  him  and 
he  had  a  fleeting  sense  of  the  pleasures  of  convales- 
cence; death  and  destruction  were  very  remote.  The 
nurse  was  not  beautiful  nor  young,  but  she  repre- 
sented womanhood  and  comfort  and  order.  It  was 
a  return  to  life  and  life  craves  joy.  His  mind  turned 
to  Sibyl,  and  it  seemed  that  she  had  been  strangely 
neglected.  She  had  no  regular  place  in  his  mind; 
she  would  possess  it  and  then  she  would  be  forgotten. 
He  permitted  himself  a  childish,  boyish  castle  of 
dreams;  he  looked  towards  the  door,  he  listened  for 
her  footsteps.  But  it  was  not  as  a  lover  that  he 
regarded  himself  now,  but  as  a  poor,  stricken  thing, 
less  than  a  man,  a  child  desiring  comfort.  He  be- 
came very  sentimental,  and  then,  seeing  the  nurse 
placidly  engaged  in  some  work  about  the  room,  he 
had  a  healthy  revolt.  He  even  recalled  the  phase  of 
David  Copperfield  and  the  elder  Miss  Larkins.  And 
then  he  had  a  dim  prescience  of  the  day  when  he 
would  demand  a  chop  and  a  bottle  of  beer. 

It  burnt  into  his  imagination  that  there  is  too  much 
pain  in  this  world.  Too  much  already,  and  now  comes 
this  war  to  multiply  it.  He  saw  very  clearly  that  the 
war  ought  not  to  be.  He  felt  capable  of  extraordinary 
eloquence  on  the  subject.  He  had  the  point  of  view 
and  if  he  could  but  write  now  he  would  enforce  it. 
His  appeal  would  be  beautiful  and  moving,  but  there 


FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  217 

would  be  grim  humor  in  the  notiofr  that  the  diplomats 
should  all  be  harried  into  a  nursing-home  and  cut 
about  by  ardent  young  surgeons  who  could  surely 
find  something  to  mend  in  their  miserable  carcasses. 
The  point — the  striking,  illuminating  point  which  had 
had  no  more  than  formal  recognition — was  that  all  this 
pain  had  never  been  taken  into  account.  All  sorts  of 
glowing  ambitions,  of  just  resentments,  gallantry,  pru- 
dence; the  platitudes  about  the  horrors  of  war;  but 
not  this  pain.  Of  course,  you  couldn't  get  pain  out 
of  the  world;  you  couldn't  let  Germans  trample  over 
you  because  it  would  hurt  to  resist  them;  but  where 
the  councils  of  war  are  gathered  together  there  should 
be  some  one  there  who  knew.  The  greatest  thing  of 
all  should  not  be  forgotten. 

He  had  a  night  of  deep  discomfort  which  changed 
to  constant  pain.  As  time  wore  on  he  felt  that  he 
was  near  the  end  of  his  resources  and  that  he  was  no 
stoic.  And  then  from  an  environment  that  had  hardly 
been  marked  his  nurse  emerged.  She  was  a  small, 
quiet  woman  of  middle  age,  strong  in  feature,  gentle 
in  expression.  He  saw  that  he  could  trust  her,  even 
with  the  confession  of  his  weakness ;  and  his  appeal 
for  help  was  not  in  vain.  He  groaned  and  writhed, 
but  he  had  a  friend.  She  was  active  in  service,  full 
of  experiments,  never  at  a  loss.  She  never  came 
to  the  end  of  her  resources.  She  changed  his  position 
skilfully,  she  brought  hot  bottles  for  his  feet  and  stom- 
ach, cooling  lotions  for  his  head.  She  gave  him  hot  tea 
and  even  hot  brandy;  she  never  let  him  feel  that  the 
last  card  was  played.  His  misery,  his  agony  became 


218  TRUE  LOVE 

qualified  with  admiration.  He  admired  her  swift, 
elegant  movements,  the  calmness  that  was  never  cold, 
the  sympathy  that  yet  incited  him  to  effort.  He  began 
to  idealize  her  and  to  pursue  the  interest.  He  told 
her  of  his  admiration  and  she  tried  to  explain  all  by 
her  training,  her  faithfulness  to  a  routine.  He  would 
not  have  that.  "  You're  a  marvelous  nurse,"  he  said ; 
"  you've  the  touch,  the  temperament,  the  spirit.  You 
give  me  new  conceptions  of  help,  of  human  help. 
You're  my  friend;  you'll  always  be  my  friend."  He 
was  greatly  affected,  and,  for  happy  moments,  his 
emotion  transcended  the  pain.  She  would  not  have 
it  that  she  was  better  than  her  fellows,  she  made  mis- 
takes, she  had  her  lapses.  And  then  she  said  that 
what  merit  she  had  as  a  nurse  had  come  in  answer 
to  prayer.  She  was  a  simple  woman,  believing  simply 
in  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  They  discussed  the  subject 
guardedly.  It  appeared  that  she  was  shy  of  it,  dread- 
ing his  skepticism  or  incredulity  and  instinctively 
aware  of  them.  Presently  he  fell  into  a  slight,  pre- 
carious doze. 

And  as  suffering  begets  succor,  so,  it  seemed  to  him 
on  reflection,  even  the  miseries  and  abominations  of 
war  have  their  other  side.  His  nurse  would  have  gone 
to  the  war,  but  that  she  was  not  strong  and  had  not 
been  accepted.  She  would  have  gone  because  she 
was  most  wanted  there,  and  he  could  imagine  her 
away  from  the  polite  civilities  of  the  nursing-home, 
where  even  pain  seems  to  be  muffled,  and  facing  prob- 
lems more  tremendous  than  his  own  sleepless  night. 
It  humbled  him  and  it  exalted  her.  Think  of  her  and 


FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  219 

think  of  the  war  and  she  was  noflhsignificant.  Ajax 
defying  the  lightning  is  an  arrogant  fool;  the  nurse 
confronting  the  pain  of  the  world  is  sublime. 

Sewell  came  in  daily  and  nodded  over  him;  then 
there  came  the  dressing  of  the  wounds,  which  he 
didn't  like  at  all,  but  he  gained  some  confidence  in  his 
manhood  through  it,  nevertheless.  You  may  play 
at  being  a  brave  man  so  long  that  nature  comes  to 
your  help ;  or  is  there  always  the  subtle  flaw  that  may 
bring  disgrace  in  the  unguarded  moment? 

He  remembered  gaining  some  credit  with  himself 
when,  as  a  youth,  he  had  a  tooth  pulled  out.  It  was 
an  obstinate  tooth,  and  the  old  family  dentist  clutched 
and  pulled  and  broke  bits  off  and  changed  his  instru- 
ment while  Geoffrey  sat  in  the  chair  apparently  un- 
moved. He  was  deeply  scared  and  apprehensive  and 
shrank  from  the  pain,  but  he  didn't  see  what  he  could 
do  but  just  sit  there.  The  alternative  was  disgrace, 
a  moral  defeat;  there  wasn't  an  alternative.  At  a 
pause  in  the  struggle  the  dentist  said :  "  There's  one 
point  in  our  favor,"  and  Geoffrey,  with  polite  interest, 
asked,  "What's  that?"  The  reply,  which  he  cher- 
ished, was,  "  A  good  patient,"  and  the  joke  was  that 
he  wasn't  really  a  good  patient,  he  was  only  pretending 
to  be.  And  now  when  Sewell  put  on  his  rubber 
gloves  Geoffrey  felt  that  he  had  got  to  bluff  him,  to 
keep  up  a  reputation  for  the  normal.  He  was  humble, 
weak,  but  there  was  just  a  thread  of  tenacity  that 
for  practical  purposes  was  as  good  as  a  stout  rope. 
He  maintained  the  character  of  a  good  patient,  gain- 
ing some  respect  for  gesture,  for  attitude. 


220  TRUE  LOVE 

Discussing  his  operation  with  the  nurse  he  learnt  to 
his  suprise  that  he  had  done  a  good  deal  of  talking 
or  calling  out  before  the  chloroform  subdued  him. 
In  such  a  case  there  may  be  some  want  of  dignity 
in  asking  what  was  said,  but  he  did  ask,  and  the 
nurse  was  not  very  ready  to  tell  him,  though  she 
seemed  willing  to  have  it  dragged  out  of  her.  Pro- 
fessionally she  might  be  justified  on  the  plea  that  the 
patient  must  not  be  excited.  To  his  consternation 
Geoffrey  learnt  that  he  had  shouted  that  Sewell  was 
not  a  gentleman;  he  had  insisted  on  that  in  some  de- 
tail, and  there  had  been  some  puzzling  reference  to 
a  diamond  ring.  Gough  had  laughed,  but  Sewell  had 
not  paid  any  attention  till  the  ring  was  mentioned. 
Then  he  had  said :  "  Why  the  deuce  shouldn't  a  man 
wear  a  diamond  ring  if  it  pleases  him  ?  "  Geoffrey 
groaned,  and  the  nurse,  in  vexation,  said,  "  There ! 
I  shouldn't  have  told  you."  It  was  horribly  annoying. 
"  Of  course  you  never  know  what  they'll  say,"  she 
declared.  She  considered  Mr.  Sewell  a  perfect  gen- 
tleman and  Geoffrey  hastened  to  agree.  "  What  could 
I  have  meant?"  he  said,  and  acted  incredulity.  The 
nurse  begged  that  he  would  not  tell  Mr.  Sewell  and, 
as  it  seemed  impossible  to  explain  to  him,  he  prom- 
ised. What  had  he  meant?  This  arrogance  of  the 
gentlemanlike,  petty  exclusiveness,  seemed  despicable 
now.  Sewell  was  a  man  of  fine  qualities,  and  here 
in  all  the  sincerity  of  unconsciousness  he  had  insulted 
him.  And  now  when  Sewell  visited  him  Geoffrey  was 
vastly  uncomfortable.  He  tried  to  emphasize  his  grat- 
itude, he  was  eagerly  cordial.  Sewell  was  cool  and 


FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  221 

kind  and  admirably  master  of  Himself;  he  wore  his 
ring  without  a  difference. 

Geoffrey  had  visitors  and  he  heard  something  of 
the  progress  of  the  war  which  was  remote;  a  baleful 
story  told  to  a  child.  It  was  Mary  who  came  first, 
and  she  was  gentle  and  anxious,  finding  him  strangely 
altered.  She  could  take  it  casually  or  philosophically 
that  the  familiar  manhood  in  him  should  be  so  sub- 
dued. She  asked  him  a  question.  "  Do  you  see  every- 
thing the  same  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  There 
was  a  hint  of  protest  in  his  tone.  He  dreaded  the 
controversial. 

And  she  said,  hurriedly,  "  It  doesn't  matter.  It's 
nothing." 

They  spoke  of  other  things,  and  Mary  gave  him 
household  news  and  talked  of  Milly's  nursing  projects, 
and  even  of  hers.  When  she  had  gone  he  reviewed 
his  impressions,  and,  struck  with  an  idea,  he  asked  the 
nurse  for  a  mirror.  She  held  one  before  him  and 
he  looked  at  his  pale,  sunken  face,  which  seemed 
hardly  of  this  world.  That  was  what  Mary  had  seen, 
and  the  poor  girl  must  have  had  the  thought  that  he 
might  be  purged  of  bloody,  warlike  imaginings;  that 
some  illumination  might  have  come  with  this  subdual 
of  the  flesh.  She  would  not  worry  him ;  it  was  a  poor, 
attenuated  hope,  hurriedly  concealed.  He  found  it 
very  pathetic,  and  yet  he  thought  that  had  she  been 
there  he  might  have  been  roused  to  angry  protest. 

Men  from  the  office  came — Burke,  and  Attar,  and 
Tate,  and  one  afternoon  he  was  considerably  aston- 


222  TRUE  LOVE 

ished  and  a  little  embarrassed  when  Bonsor  was  an- 
nounced. Bonsor  was  at  the  door,  and  only  a  firm 
decision  could  have  excluded  him;  besides,  it  was 
a  dull  afternoon,  and  Bonsor  might  be  amusing. 

Bonsor,  it  seemed,  had  thought  it  "  only  right "  to 
tell  him  that  he  admired  this  attempt  to  enlist.  He 
was  beyond  the  age  himself  or  he  would  certainly 
have  applied  for  a  commission.  "  I  am  glad,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  that  your  eyes  are  opened  at  last."  "  To 
what  ?  "  said  Geoffrey  rather  tartly,  and  Bonsor,  with 
marked  tact,  said  that  they  wouldn't  go  into  that  now. 
Geoffrey  laughed  and  asked  what  Riley  was  doing. 
Riley  was  of  an  age  for  soldiering,  but  it  appeared 
that  he  was  conscious  of  a  talent — possibly  even  a 
genius — for  organizing,  and  so  he  wanted  to  organize 
something.  And,  indeed,  this  war  seemed  likely  to 
develop  an  orgy  of  organization.  Thousands  have 
discovered  that  mere  blind,  blunt  work  leads  no- 
whither,  but  that  properly  directed,  labor  can  do  won- 
ders. The  difficulty  is  that  the  natural  aspiration 
to  direct  has  caused  a  rush  for  the  higher  posts. 
Bonsor  would  have  liked  to  put  himself  at  the  head 
of  something,  but  that  his  own  business — children's 
underclothing — claimed  all  his  energies.  He  took  an 
exalted  view  of  the  underclothing  trade,  and,  later, 
when  the  stress  came  and  there  was  so  much  talk 
about  the  necessity  of  providing  milk  for  the  children 
— Bonsor  never  denied  their  right  to  milk — he  was 
bitter  about  the  deplorable  condition  of  their  under- 
clothing and  the  infamous  attempts  of  parents  to  save 
on  this  item. 


FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  223 

Bonsor  had  a  tremendous  fund  of  gossip,  and  such 
phrases  as  "  know  for  a  fact "  and  "  a  man  high 
up  at  the  Admiralty  told  me  "  besprinkled  his  com- 
munication of  it.  Geoffrey's  skepticism  was,  perhaps, 
excessive,  but  Bonsor  fed  it  with  the  crudest  of 
spy  stories.  He  believed  implicitly  in  the  German 
governesses  with  bombs  at  the  bottom  of  their  boxes, 
in  the  signals  flashing  from  boarding-houses  at  South- 
port  or  Blackpool;  presently  he  would  believe  in  the 
heroic  Germans  who,  by  means  of  lanterns  from  the 
top  story,  gave  the  direction  to  Zeppelins  for  their 
own  destruction.  He  was  excited  about  our  neglect 
to  intern  harmless  old  bores  of  German  origin,  whom 
he  credited  with  miracles  of  organized  hypocrisy,  and 
he  whispered  of  damning  facts  that  they  had  let  out 
at  dinner  parties ;  the  facts  were  in  Whiiaker's  Alma- 
nac, but  it  appeared  that  a  guileless  German  govern- 
ment was  ready  to  pay  huge  sums  for  them.  Geoffrey 
found  that  the  easiest  way  to  deal  with  all  this  was 
to  accept  it  with  ironic  calm;  it  was  a  pretty  good 
joke  and,  when  you  could  take  it  that  way,  the  further 
Bonsor  went  the  jollier  it  was.  Certainly  there  was 
some  danger  in  this  attitude  of  mind  as  there  must 
be  in  all  extremes.  You  do  not  put  a  genial  skeptic 
at  the  head  of  your  Criminal  Investigation  Depart- 
ment. 

Bonsor  was  good,  too,  on  the  strategy  of  the  war 
and  the  plan  to  draw  the  Germans  into  the  center  of 
France,  there  to  annihilate  them.  The  whole  thing 
was  terrible,  or  it  was  solemn,  but  if  the  humorist 
keeps  his  nerve  he  may  find  his  best  opportunities 


224  TRUE  LOVE 

in  the  Day  of  Judgment  or  the  Day  of  Wrath.  If 
Bonsor  had  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century  he  would  have  believed  firmly  enough  that 
an  Englishman  was  equal  to  three  Frenchmen.  There 
was  a  sort  of  loyalty  about  him;  he  was  a  fool,  but 
a  faithful  fool.  He  went  about  gathering  superficial 
expressions  of  opinion  and  then  he  produced  them 
with  emphatic  conviction  as  his  own.  His  individual- 
ity consisted  of  a  few  accidental  features  which  re- 
called character  in  others.  He  had  some  dim  con- 
sciousness of  his  insignificance  and  it  pushed  him  to 
emphasis,  he  developed  a  manner.  When  you  got 
him  alone  he  lost  some  of  this  truculence,  but  his 
obstinacy  prevailed.  It  was  all  he  had.  It  was  faith, 
loyalty,  religion,  and  morals. 

Geoffrey  listened  to  Bonsor's  babble,  and  wondered 
that  he  should  ever  have  been  angry  with  him.  The 
virulent  Riley  was  another  matter,  and  Riley,  it 
seemed,  was  disposed  to  skulk;  in  the  interests  of 
symmetry  you  may  be  grateful  to  a  bully  if  he  fits 
into  the  scheme  of  things  as  a  coward.  But  your 
rat  may  put  up  a  great  fight  when  it  is  cornered. 
This  war  was  to  bring  a  tremendous  change  in  values ; 
all  manner  of  gallantries  and  meannesses  were  to 
sprout  in  unexpected  places;  the  high  were  to  be 
brought  low  and  the  humble  exalted.  Men  who  might 
have  led  quiet,  noble  lives  were  to  fail  miserably 
through  some  hidden  flaw,  and  loathsome  blackguards 
to  die  as  heroes.  It  seemed  that  this  was,  at  last,  the 
chance  for  the  individual,  and  it  seemed,  too,  that 
everything  was  to  be  poured  into  a  common  stock. 


FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  225 

With  surprise  and  indignation^  Geoffrey  heard  Bon- 
sor  refer  to  Sewell  as  "a  bit  of  a  bounder — good 
surgeon,  of  course."  Bonsor,  certainly,  had  not  fine 
perceptions,  but  he  had  caught  something  of  the 
current  estimates;  and  club  standards  may  be  unerr- 
ing in  their  limited  way.  Geoffrey  spoke  angrily  in 
defense  of  Sewell,  and  the  more  angrily  that  he,  too, 
was  tainted  by  that  cruelty  of  exclusiveness  which 
exalts  some  trivial  refinement,  some  trick  of  suave 
deprecation  above  the  realities  of  manhood.  It  crossed 
his  mind  that  he  would  some  day  write  a  novel  with 
the  bounder  for  hero;  yes,  the  bounder  should  be  a 
Galahad,  a  Christ.  Well,  manhood  was  coming  to 
its  own,  and  he,  too,  would  presently  be  put  to  the 
test;  he  would  have  to  find  his  level.  In  his  heart 
he  protested.  He  had  built  up  an  edifice  of  life 
slowly,  with  infinite  pains  and,  in  a  dim,  frustrate  way, 
with  such  righteousness  as  was  in  him.  Now  it  was 
to  be  shattered;  at  least  it  was  to  be  tested  as  he 
could  not  have  foreseen.  And  what  followed  might 
alter  everything;  calamities  of  trie  spirit  are  retro- 
spective. He  thought  of  himself  and  Mary — he 
thought  of  her  before  Sibyl — and  it  seemed  that  even 
Mary,  with  all  her  repudiations  of  this  state  of  war, 
might  find  him  out.  They  were  the  imaginings  of  a 
sick  man,  of  a  timid  spirit.  He  had  silenced  Bonsor, 
who  was  fumbling  among  the  books  on  the  table  by 
the  bed  and  obstinately  prolonging  his  visit.  He  han- 
dled a  volume  of  The  Dynasts  with  a  sort  of  in- 
credulity, and  Geoffrey  waited  impatiently  for  his 
futile  comment.  It  was  delayed,  and  from  his  bed 


226  TRUE  LOVE 

Geoffrey  surveyed  the  world.  He  felt  himself  re- 
moved from  it  all;  he  was  the  Ironies,  the  Pities, 
the  sinister  or  benevolent  spirits  that  brooded  over 
Hardy's  battlefields.  And  then  he  found  himself 
agreeing  politely  with  Bonsor's  platitudes  about  the 
comparative  insignificance  of  these  old  wars.  They 
had  only  thousands  to  kill  where  we  have  millions, 
they  played  with  obsolete  toys  like  muskets  and  can- 
non-balls. Bonsor  kindled  at  inflations;  as  the  mil- 
lions mounted  his  emotions  would  take  the  cast  of 
awe.  He  had  not  the  intelligence  to  explore  the  in- 
terests of  modern  warfare  with  its  fresh  and  complex 
problems,  its  disconcerting  possibilities,  but  he  re- 
sponded to  quantity.  There  are  many  of  us,  we  are 
great,  we  are  progressive.  We  are  British,  and  at  the 
back  as  well  as  the  front  of  Bonsor's  mind  was  the 
obstinate  belief  in  success  which  makes  for  success. 
Geoffrey  believed  sometimes  that  he  could  analyze 
Bonsor's  conversation  into  components  representing 
the  more  forcible  of  his  consorts.  "  A  new  world  is 
coming,"  says  Bonsor,  "  and  there  will  be  no  room 
in  it  for  laissez-faire;  activity,  not  passivity,  will  win 
the  day."  Economists,  it  seemed,  would  have  to  give 
way  to  hearty  business  men  who  would  stand  no 
nonsense ;  your  puking  philanthropists  to  men  of  iron 
(acting,  no  doubt,  from  the  highest  motives).  With 
an  eye  on  the  bedside  books,  Bonsor  declared  that 
literature  and  the  arts  were  on  the  verge  of  a  profound 
change.  He  was  a  little  vague  about  its  character 
and  direction.  "  I've  heard  something  of  this  sort 
before,"  said  Geoffrey,  and  then,  with  a  smile,  "  I 


FOOLS  IN  COUNCIL  227 

can  see  Wordsworth  and  Shelley-shining  like  stars  in 
the  sky."  It  was  not  addressed  to  Bonsor,  it  was 
a  parenthesis  of  his  own,  but  Bonsor  replied  to  it. 
Wordsworth  and  Shelley  were  not  the  point,  it  seemed, 
but  the  decadent,  unmoral,  or  immoral  modern  litera- 
ture. "  Don't  you  think  some  of  it  very  beautiful  ?  " 
said  Geoffrey  languidly,  but  beauty,  too,  was  not  the 
point.  "  We've  got  to  be  braced  up,"  said  Bonsor, 
and  he  mentioned  a  volume  of  Australian  poems  which 
had  the  very  spirit  of  conquering  Rome.  Geoffrey 
was  too  polite  to  ask  him  who  had  said  that. 

It  was  an  easy  transition  to  the  theater,  and  Bonsor 
remarked  with  approval  that  the  character  of  the 
pieces  at  the  Playgoers'  had  already  undergone  a 
change.  "No  more  Alice  Deans?"  said  Geoffrey 
pleasantly,  and  Bonsor  "  confessed  "  that  he  thought 
that  sort  of  thing  was  on  the  shelf.  "  Of  course,  clas- 
sics are  classics,"  he  said  indulgently,  "  but  we've  not 
had  many  during  the  last  fifty  years." 

"  Diplomacy  and  two  or  three  more,"  suggested 
Geoffrey  mischievously,  and  Bonsor  assented  to  this 
gravely.  It  was  difficult  to  think  of  him  as  a  man 
to  be  hurt. 

He  mentioned  that  Miss  Drew  was  coming  to  the 
Playgoers'  in  a  few  weeks.  "  But  of  course  you'll 
know  all  about  that,"  he  said.  His  tone  had  no  par- 
ticular significance. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
COTERIE 

DESCENDING  from  the  tram  in  Cross  Street,  Geoffrey 
was  conscious  of  his  stick  and  his  limp,  and  did  his 
best  not  to  look  like  a  hero  prematurely  wounded. 
He  had  intended  to  have  tea  at  home,  but  a  wrangle 
with  Mary  had  perturbed  him,  and  so  he  had  pre- 
tended or  fancied  that  he  had  work  to  do  at  the  office. 
Mary  and  he  had  blundered  upon  the  subject  of  Ger- 
man excesses  and  her  skepticism  had  annoyed  him. 
He  had  been  skeptical  about  it  himself,  but  the  mis- 
erable conviction  was  growing  that  German  soldiers 
were  not  quite  as  other  civilized  men,  and  his  sensi- 
tiveness on  the  subject  demanded  that  she  should 
agree  with  him  precisely.  She  had  been  warm  and 
emphatic  on  the  meanness  of  believing  ill  of  our  ene- 
mies, and  had  gone  further  than  she  intended ;  he  had 
been  angry  and  had  said  hard  things  stupidly.  Now 
it  made  him  unhappy  to  think  of  her  unhappy  at 
home,  and  all  the  time  he  had  been  in  the  tram  he 
had  been  up  against  the  impossibility  of  going  back 
to  have  tea  with  her.  For  he  couldn't  do  that.  He 
wanted  to  do  it  and  he  couldn't.  If  they  had  quar- 
reled savagely  and  tragically  he  might  have  done  it, 
but  now  there  was  not  the  necessary  rebound.  He 

228 


COTERIE  229 

had  the  grace  to  hope  that  Milly^Warde  would  come 
in  and  make  a  distraction  for  her.  And  he  wanted 
a  distraction  himself. 

And  so  he  limped  into  the  tea-shop,  and  downstairs 
there  he  found  the  little  coterie  of  intellectuals,  who 
hailed  him  almost  cordially.  They  were  too  well- 
mannered  to  embarrass  him  with  demand  for  more 
explanations  than  he  wished  to  give,  and  they  went 
on  with  their  talk  without  making  him  feel  that  it 
was  exclusive.  It  seemed  to  be  on  the  endless  subject 
of  Philistinism,  for,  like  most  ardent  young  men,  these 
lived  very  much  on  their  antipathies.  Their  ardors, 
too,  were  overlaid  with  languors  and  ironies;  they 
did  not  parade  their  enthusiasms,  but  it  meant  some- 
thing when  they  markedly  abstained  from  contempt. 
Imalian  could  hardly  be  called  a  leader  among  them, 
but  his  melancholy  courtesy  had  influenced  their  man- 
ners. These  were  charming,  at  least  when  you  were 
there ;  for  Geoffrey  was  conscious  of  the  critical  atti- 
tude and  of  a  certain  avidity  in  fastening  on  a  fresh 
object  for  criticism.  These  men  knew  one  another 
pretty  well  and  they  had  exhausted  one  another's  ob- 
vious possibilities.  They  had,  as  Imalian  would  say, 
perfected  the  formulas,  and  there  was  a  certain  reluc- 
tance to  having  them  disturbed.  The  stranger  or  the 
comparative  stranger  might  think  that  he  was  getting 
on  finely  with  them,  but  if,  after  his  departure,  he 
could  have  played  the  eavesdropper  it  might  have 
astonished  him  considerably.  They  were  young,  they 
had  their  secret  enthusiasms,  and  even  some  spectac- 
ular ones,  and  they  specialized  in  contempt.  The 


230  TRUE  LOVE 

talent  acclaimed  yesterday  was  thrust  aside  to-day 
as  a  mere  masquerade,  an  aping  of  genius.  They 
sought  the  highest ;  in  their  queer  way  they  followed 
the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail.  They  were  good  fellows 
who  would  help  one  another. 

It  was  a  capital  distraction  and  the  talk  flitted  from 
one  thing  to  another.  They  prided  themselves  on 
not  being  unduly  obsessed  by  the  war,  though,  being 
human,  they  returned  to  it.  Its  effect  on  the  big, 
florid  world  of  financial  successes  and  social  greed 
was  discussed,  and  Bevan  maintained,  reasonably 
enough,  that  these  represented  constant  elements  in 
human  nature  and  could  never  be  eliminated  by  patri- 
otic ideals  which  were  what  he  called  a  side-show. 
"  Eliminated  ?  No,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  but  they  may 
be  vastly  reduced."  Bevan  questioned  this,  and  Geof- 
frey suggested  that  thousands  of  men  were  now  vol- 
unteering for  hardship  and  possible  death  who  had 
always  sought  the  gross  comforts. 

"  Simply  the  pressure  of  public  opinion,"  said  Bevan. 
"  That's  the  strongest  thing  in  life." 

"You  mean  that  patriotic  ideals  are  universal  al- 
ready ?  "  said  Geoffrey. 

"  We're  all  virtuous  in  the  abstract.  A  set  of  scoun- 
drels will  cheer  a  fine  sentiment." 

"  I  think  the  impulse  for  sacrifice  comes  from 
within,"  said  Geoffrey. 

This  was  debated,  and  it  was  agreed  that  there  was 
a  spectacular  element,  varying  in  individuals.  Bevan 
objected  to  this  idealization  of  self-sacrifice.  He  con- 
sidered it  an  impertinence  for  any  one  to  sacrifice  him- 


COTERIE  231 

self  for  him,  and  he  had  no  desire^  do  it  for  another. 
"  But  what  the  deuce  are  you  to  do  when  the  Germans 
come  ? "  said  Geoffrey.  The  general  sense  seemed 
to  be  that  the  Government  and  stupid  diplomacy  were 
to  blame.  Some  one  said  that  if  we  had  to  fight,  a 
sort  of  militia  ballot  seemed  the  fair  thing,  and  to 
this  it  was  objected  that  all  those  who  wanted  to  fight 
should  go  first.  There  was  evidently  no  enthusiasm 
here  for  the  military  career;  the  whole  thing  was  so 
"  damned  idiotic "  and  unworthy  of  civilized  men. 
Bevan  said  that  it  was  unreasonable  to  ask  a  man  to 
die  before  his  time  unless  you  could  promise  him 
another  life  and  the  odds  seemed  to  be  against  that. 
After  considering  the  subject  and  weighing  the  odds 
he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  a  shade 
worse  than  five  to  two  against  immortality.  Imalian 
smiled  indulgently,  and  you  could  believe  that  he  had 
some  secret,  deep  intelligence  on  the  subject. 

A  quiet,  pale  young  man  whose  name  Geoffrey  didn't 
know  said  that  a  ballot  would  be  coercion  just  as 
much  as  anything  else.  "  I'll  go  to  the  war  or  not  as 
I  like,"  he  said,  "  and  it  happens  that  I  don't  like." 
He  declined  to  be  mixed  up  in  "your  quarrels."  It 
seemed  that  he  had  a  high  ideal  of  personal  freedom. 
Niceties  about  taking  life  didn't  trouble  him.  "  In 
certain  circumstances  I  should  not  object  to  kill  a 
man,"  he  said,  "  but  it  must  be  the  man  I  want  to 
kill  and  not  an  innocent,  irrelevant  peasant  a  mile 
off."  He  had  no  objection  to  Christian  non-resistance 
and  none  to  war  for  those  who  liked  it.  "If  you  are 
naturally  cruel  and  bloody,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  splendid 


232  TRUE  LOVE 

opportunity  to  exercise  your  gifts  under  respectable 
auspices." 

Geoffrey,  rather  wearily,  advanced  some  argumenta- 
tive formulas  about  the  impossibility  of  isolating  the 
individual  in  the  State.  "  We  may  come  to  this,"  he 
said,  "  that  food  can  only  be  brought  here  by  fighting. 
Would  you  expect  us  to  go  on  feeding  you  ?  " 

The  pale  young  man  said  that  his  money  would  be 
as  good  as  anybody  else's. 

"When  you're  adrift  on  a  raft,"  said  Geoffrey, 
"  money  loses  its  value.  All  who  conform  to  the  gen- 
eral interest  share  alike;  the  others  are  pushed  over 
the  edge." 

"  Simple  analogies  for  complex  states !  "  He  agreed 
that  a  point  might  come  at  which  the  dissenter  must 
choose  between  acquiescence  and  martyrdom.  "  I 
should  probably  choose  acquiescence,"  he  said,  "  but 
with  a  personal  reserve." 

"Of  what  nature  ?  "  asked  Geoffrey. 

"  Well,  it  would  have  to  be  ironical,  I  suppose." 

"As  much  of  that  as  you  like,"  said  Geoffrey. 
"Thought  is  free." 

"  You  make  a  curious,  arbitrary  distinction  between 
thought  and  action,"  said  the  other. 

Then  they  had  a  rather  ugly  little  discussion  about 
the  relation  of  war  to  sex  indulgence.  "  It's  natural," 
said  Bevan,  "  that  they  should  go  together."  A  man 
who  may  soon  be  killed  hurries  up  with  sensual  pleas- 
ures. Already  young  soldiers  are  marrying  in  haste 
and  they  seem  to  think  their  lusts  are  holy  if  the 
Church  blesses  them  " 


COTERIE  233 

Geoffrey  said :  "  If  life  is  going  to  be  speeded  up 
it  won't  be  all  the  wrong  way.  We  shall  hurry  up 
with  our  idealisms  and  nobilities  too.  And  why  should 
lovers  be  thwarted  if — if  they  can  get  ahead  of 
death?" 

He  withdrew  into  a  meditation ;  he  had  got  back  to 
himself.  And  then  it  appeared  that  his  friends  were 
safely  back  at  literature  again — they  always  returned 
to  that — and  the  pale  young  man  was  analyzing  the 
terms  of  his  skepticism.  It  seemed  that  he  mistrusted 
the  classics  profoundly.  It  was  not  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish good  from  bad  in  contemporary  literature, 
but  how  were  you  to  compare  the  merits  of  Fielding 
and  Frank  Swinnerton?  Why  is  Charlotte  Bronte 
better  than  Viola  Meynell?  He  was  scornful  about 
the  "  academic  reverberations  "  on  the  side  of  the  elder 
writers.  He  admitted  a  "  personal  deficiency "  in 
criteria,  but  suggested  that  criteria  were  little  more 
than  the  petrifaction  of  obsolete  opinion. 

Imalian  said  that  you  didn't  want  formulas  to  see 
that  Keats  was  ahead  of  the  "  Georgians." 

"Ah,"  said  Bevan,  "their  fault  is  that  they're 
alive."  And  then  he  quoted  something  about  "the  dead 
for  the  dead."  The  world  is  full  of  dead  people  who 
care  only  for  dead  authors. 

Anyhow,  they  were  far  from  the  war  now,  and  it 
is  one  of  the  mitigations  of  the  human  lot  that  round 
a  table  with  your  friends  you  can  choose  your  life; 
you  can  live  exclusively.  Geoffrey  looked  about  him 
and  saw  the  various  parties  intent  on  their  own  affairs 
and  moving  freely  in  them.  Through  the  ages  liberty 


234  TRUE  LOVE 

has  survived  in  intimate  conversation  with  a  friend. 
At  his  table  somebody  was  saying,  "  Jane  Austen  is 
perfect  but  not  first  rate ;  Conrad  is  first  rate  but  not 
perfect."  But  he  was  conscious  of  two  men  who 
were  sitting  near  him  and  discussing  something  with 
a  subdued  enthusiasm.  "  Breaking  both  ways,"  he 
heard,  and  "  four  men  on  the  leg  side."  They  were 
talking  about  cricket,  about  the  season  dead  and  gone 
and  perhaps  never  to  return.  They  had  set  up  their 
little  protection  against  a  terrible,  insensate  world,  and 
talked  quietly  and  happily  about  old  cricket  matches. 
This  underground  tea-room  became  a  sort  of  oubliette. 

And  then,  something  to  his  vexation,  Geoffrey  found 
himself  back  at  the  Germans  and  rather  tartly  com- 
bating the  easy,  superior  contention  that  we  are  all 
pretty  much  alike,  that  in  cruelties  and  treacheries  it 
is  six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  other,  that  you 
cannot  frame  an  indictment  or  eulogy  about  a  nation, 
that  indignation  is  an  anachronism.  "  How  can  we 
trust  them  ?  How  can  we  make  peace  with  them  ?  " 
he  said,  and  he  was  guilty  of  something  grandiloquent 
about  the  sword  between.  He  was  uneasily  conscious 
that  he  spoke  very  much  as  Bonsor  might  have  spoken, 
and  that  had  he  been  with  Bonsor  he  would  have  said 
such  things  as  these  men  were  saying.  It  is  hard  to 
keep  a  middle  way,  and  he  found  himself  swayed  by 
his  antagonisms.  He  would  be  just,  but  justice  is 
not  in  the  middle  way. 

They  all  went  upstairs  together,  and  they  tried, 
through  the  perturbations  and  rufflings,  to  catch  the 
friendly  note  again.  Geoffrey  felt  that  he  had  bum- 


COTERIE  235 

dered  rather  heavily  among  them.  -~He  had  taken  them 
at  their  word,  and,  with  all  its  cleverness,  they  were 
better  than  that.  They  might  go  by  wrong  ways,  but 
not  by  base  ones ;  some  of  them  were  yet  to  turn  out 
no  better  than  common  heroes.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
in  finding  the  greatest  common  measure  of  its  indi- 
viduals the  world  has  an  awkward  job  before  it. 

As  he  paid  his  bill  he  glanced  round  this  upper 
room  where  ladies  congregate,  and  there  sat  Sibyl 
in  her  old  place  looking  at  him  eagerly.  He  nodded 
to  Imalian,  who  smiled  benevolently  and  followed  the 
others  out.  Geoffrey  sat  down  opposite  to  Sibyl  at  the 
table. 

"At  last!"  he  said. 


PART   III 


CHAPTER  XVII 
AT  LAST 

"Ax  last?"  she  repeated. 

He  smiled  at  her  encouragingly  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  no  need  for  hasty  explanations  or  even 
for  explicit  ones.  He  had  her  there  and  he  was 
powerful  and  aggressive  and  tender;  he  was  the  suc- 
cessful lover  possessed  by  a  serene  confidence.  He 
didn't  answer  her  "At  last?"  They  talked  a  little 
about  immediate  things,  mentioned  the  Wibberleys, 
recalled — but  faintly — Grasmere.  Sibyl  asked  about 
Mary,  and  in  his  sensitive  appreciation  it  seemed  that 
this  was  wistfully.  She  had  blue,  beseeching  eyes. 
She  was  an  exquisite  creature.  On  the  stage  she  could 
be  decorative,  grandiose.  A  fine  actress,  of  course, 
but  now  those  mimic  presentments,  disguises,  postur- 
ings,  faded  away  in  this  reality.  He  had  seen  her  face 
daubed  with  paint,  and  on  that  gaudy  night  of  Alice 
Dean  it  had  been  strangely  alluring.  Now  her  linea- 
ments were  finer,  nobler.  That  stage  life  was  a  ro- 
mantic background;  that  boasted  art  of  hers  was 
charming  and  a  bit  of  a  joke.  He  would  try  to  ex- 
plain this  to  her  some  day  when  he  understood  it  more 
clearly  himself.  She  was  looking  at  him  timidly,  in- 
quiringly ;  she  was  not  happy  and  he  must  come  to  the 

239 


240  TRUE  LOVE 

point.  Surely  it  was  understood  between  them  now, 
but  maiden  modesty  demands  the  explicit. 

He  said :  "  I've  often  thought  of  writing  to  you." 

"  But  you  didn't." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  make  you  understand  why." 

It  was  with  the  ghost  of  archness  that  she  said: 
"  You  can't  get  over  my  stupidity." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  he  said  almost  seriously.  "  I  felt 
it  would  be  such  a  tremendous  thing  to  do." 

"  I'm  so  important?  " 

"  You  say  light  things  sadly,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I'm  light  and  sad." 

"  Why  are  you  sad  ?  " 

"  Why  didn't  you  write  to  me  ?  I  mean  why  should 
you  write  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  do  things  properly,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  do 
them  at  the  right  time.  I  think  I  wait  for  things  to 
seize  me." 

"  I'm  one  of  the  things  that  might  seize  you  ?  " 

"  You  have,"  he  said. 

She  looked  away  and  so  did  he.  They  were  con- 
sidering their  environment.  It  was  not  an  ideal  one 
for  confidences,  but  the  tea-room  was  half  empty,  they 
were  not  conspicuous,  and  the  people  near  them  looked 
neutral.  It  is  a  fascinating  game  to  make  love  under 
espionage,  but  a  game  was  hardly  what  they  wanted. 
The  time  for  explanations,  for  assurances,  for  the 
plain  word  had  come. 

Yet  it  seemed  that  she  would  not  have  it  so.  She 
asked  for  news  politely.  She  inquired  about  his  opera- 
tion though  she  already  knew  most  of  what  he  told 


AT  LAST  241 

her.  Then  he  questioned  her  about  her  movements 
and  the  prospects  of  the  company  in  war  time,  and 
her  recent  parts.  They  were  getting  cold,  as  the  chil- 
dren say  in  their  seeking  game,  but  Geoffrey  was  in 
no  hurry  even  now. 

"  You  actors  are  birds  of  passage,"  he  said ;  "  you 
are  curiously  isolated,  detached.  How  little  I  know 
of  you!  I  don't  even  know  whether  Sibyl  Drew  is 
your  real  name.  Is  it?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  And  it  means  so  much  to  me.  I  can't  unlearn  it. 
Not  yet.  You'll  always  be  Sibyl  anyway.  I  can't 
think  of  you  with  family  attachments.  You  drop  out 
of  the  sky,  you  rise  out  of  the  sea  foam.  To  me  you 
are  the  most  romantic  thing  in  the  world." 

He  felt  himself  shaken,  breathless.  This  would 
scarcely  do.  His  ardor  must  be  contained.  He  looked 
about  him  uneasily  and  was  reassured.  The  neutrals 
were  still  neutral. 

"  You  shall  know  something  more  of  me,"  she 
said. 

"  In  good  time.  You  can  be  taken  on  trust.  I'm 
interested,  of  course — not  exactly  curious.  It's  you 
that  matters,  not  your  belongings,  though  I'm  sure 
they're  charming.  Whatever  they  were  they  couldn't 
kill  the  romance  in  you.  Ah !  You  do  everything 
beautifully.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  much  I  admire 
your  diction — the  way  you  talk?  The  stage  for  that. 
Give  it  its  due.  Yes,  you've  a  precision  of  speech  such 
as  you  get  from  a  foreigner  who  speaks  our  language 
perfectly." 


242  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I  can  explain  that." 

"  You  shall.  You  shall  explain  everything.  As 
much  as  you  like.  But  I'm  egotistical.  I  want  to 
go  on  babbling  to  you.  Why  do  I  delay?  Why 
have  I  delayed?  You  know  what  I  want  to  tell 
you?" 

"  That  you  are  going  to  be  a  soldier  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,  though  that's  part  of  it.  Dare 
I  whisper  it  across  the  table  ?  Observe  that  to  any  one 
who  looks  at  me  I'm  talking  politely,  casually,  to  you. 
Watch  me  appear  to  be  rather  bored.  I'm  trembling 
with  excitement.  With  a  look  you  can  put  me  in 
deadly  fear,  with  a  word — oh,  but  don't  speak  that 
word!" 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  keeping  her  eyes  fixed 
on  him. 

"A  soldier?"  he  said.  "I'm  as  good  as  one.  I 
shall  be  one  directly.  And  do  you  know  what  every 
soldier  wants?  I'm  like  the  rest.  He  wants  the  best 
thing  in  the  world.  He  wants " — he  leaned  for- 
ward and  breathed  the  word  gently — "a  sweet- 
heart." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  and,  with  a  little  alarm, 
he  perceived  that  there  was  no  flattering  concession. 
Her  eyes  were  stony.  For  an  impatient  moment  he 
thought  that  she  might  be  oppressed  by  the  timidity  of 
convention,  and  he  glanced  hurriedly  round  the  room. 
They  were  sufficiently  isolated.  He  came  back  to  her 
and  she  was  still  looking  at  him.  "  Ah ! "  he  said, 
"  you  frighten  me.  Your  eyes  are  gray  now,  and  I 
thought  they  were  blue.  Have  I  been  stupid  and 


AT  LAST  243 

presumptuous?  Forgive  me.  Be  kind  to  me.  You 
can't  be  cruel." 

"  It  is  a  cruel  world  now,  my  friend." 

"  And  a  merciful  one,  full  of  sympathy  and  devotion 
— yes,  and  love." 

"  You  love  all  ?  All  your  fellow-creatures,  even 
your  enemies  ?  " 

"  One  must  hate  cruelty  and  oppression.  And  you 
can't  separate  the  deed  from  the  man." 

"  You  hate  the  Germans  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  hate  them.  Yes.  It's  a  matter  of 
moods.  I'm  in  the  ruck.  I'm  not  blatant.  There's 
no  real  lapse  in  charity,  I  hope.  Righteous  anger,  in- 
dignation, have  their  place  in  the  world.  Of  course, 
one  can  make  allowances,  exceptions." 

"  Exceptions  ?  "  she  cried.  "  And  how  if  I  will  not 
be  an  exception  ?  " 

«  if  you " 

"  You  do  not  see  ? — you  do  not  understand  ?  I  am 
a  German." 

He  stared  at  her  and  his  face  became  rigid  in  an 
attempt  at  a  smile.  His  mind  worked  with  extraordi- 
nary rapidity  under  the  apprehension  that  he  might 
lose  her.  It  was  a  tremendous,  bewildering  blow,  and 
yet  the  practical  man  in  him  rallied  instinctively  to 
the  lover.  Thoughts  crowded  on  him  and  he  put  them 
aside.  He  must  hold  to  what  was  precious,  he  must 
not  offend  her;  and  as  she  looked  at  him  with  brave, 
terrified  eyes  his  pity  was  overwhelming,  it  obliterated 
cautions  and  reservations.  He  became  calm,  he  was 
conscious  of  calamity,  but  that  was  something  from 


244  TRUE  LOVE 

outside.  He  saw  her  beautiful  and  adorable,  he  was 
strong  and  tender.  He  leaned  to  her  and  murmured, 
"  My  dearest  love." 

As  she  looked  at  him  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
her  face  puckered  a  little.  But  she  only  wavered, 
she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  him.  It  might  have  been 
that  she  awaited  with  meekness  the  sentence  of  an  in- 
exorable judge ;  or  that  he  was  on  his  trial  before  her. 
He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  her 
smilingly,  reassuringly.  And  now  he  was  thinking 
that  he  must,  after  all,  be  wise.  What  was  best? 
What  was  possible?  He  mistrusted  his  impulses,  he 
wanted  to  get  away  and  think.  There  is  in  every  man 
a  calculating  brute,  and  he  was  not  wholly  free  from 
a  selfish  caution;  at  a  crisis  of  physical  danger  the 
man  has  still  a  self  crying  for  help  even  when  he 
sacrifices  himself  to  the  woman  in  his  charge.  Dis- 
couragements and  dismay  surged  upon  him  and,  for 
the  moment,  clouded  his  vision  of  her.  He  permitted 
reaction  to  go  to  fantastic  lengths.  Suppose  that  he 
got  up  and  bowed  and  walked  out!  Was  this  the 
course  for  a  prudent  and  truly  patriotic  Briton?  Or 
for  a  lineal  descendant  of  Judas  Iscariot?  And  yet 
if  he  did  it  at  all  it  must  be  now.  Their  choice  must 
be  made  now  and  his  choice  was  to  help  her. 

But  how?  Could  they  do  it?  Or  what  could  they 
do?  They  had  not  explored  the  situation,  and,  though 
the  big  fact  seemed  enough  for  the  moment  and  was 
unquestioned,  there  might  be  mitigations  and  qualifi- 
cations. They  watched  one  another,  they  were  on 
their  guard,  and  presently  he  would  be  startled  to  rea- 


AT  LAST  245 

lize  that  her  thoughts  had  beeir-something  like  his; 
the  male,  the  Briton,  is  accustomed  to  the  lead;  the 
lover  has  the  attitude  of  power.  She  watched  him 
anxiously  while  his  face  changed — he  did  not  mean 
it  to  change — and  she  said :  "  You  are  thinking  what 
to  do."  And  then  she  added :  "  That's  right." 

"  I'm  thinking  about  you,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  not  the  only  person  concerned,"  she  said,  and 
it  was  with  a  touch  of  protest,  of  impatience,  petu- 
lance. She  looked  about  her,  she  became  more  defi- 
nitely conscious  of  the  environment  and  so  did  he. 
The  room  was  almost  empty  and  the  waitress  came  to 
ask  for  further  orders  and  to  write  out  a  check.  Sibyl 
was  gracious  with  the  girl,  and  he  was  conscious  that 
she  bore  herself  beautifully  in  small  things  as  in  great. 
She  was  an  actress  and  he  recollected  his  old  conten- 
tion that  acting  should  be  life — or  was  it  that  life 
should  be  acting? — that  there  should  be  a  subdued 
consciousness  in  the  most  beautiful  manners,  in  the 
perfect  exposition  of  a  noble  mind.  She  was  an 
actress,  and  now  it  seemed  that  this  advent  of  the 
waitress  had  closed  the  first  act  of  their  drama.  The 
next  must  be  taken  up,  as  second  acts  are,  with  a 
certain  resolution. 

She  said :  "  I  must  go." 

He  was  honestly  ardent.  She  was  touching,  she  was 
lovely,  and  he  was  immensely  moved.  He  poured  out 
good  lover's  talk,  and  it  seemed  that  she  blinked  and 
purred  under  it ;  she  let  him  go  on.  At  last  she  said : 
"  You  ought  to  have  gone  away  and  thought  before 
you  said  all  that."  There  was  a  hint  of  raillery  in  it, 


246  TRUE  LOVE 

a  little  efflorescence  of  happiness.  "  I'm  glad.  Oh ! 
I'm  glad,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  deserve  it.  I  am 
much  to  blame." 

"How?" 

"  All  these  weeks  and  months  I  never  told  you.  I 
have  been  unhappy.  But  how  could  I  tell  you?  I 
meant  to.  I  might  have  written.  But  it  would  have 
seemed  that  I  thought — that  I  expected — that  you — 
and  at  Grasmere  I  wondered  if  you  knew.  I'm  very 
close.  I  could  explain  that  partly.  Perhaps  it  will 
not  be  necessary.  If  I  begin  there  is  so  much  to 
explain." 

"  Explain,  then.  Tell  me.  I  want  to  know  every- 
thing about  you.  Nothing  can  harm  you." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  should." 

"  At  Grasmere — you  knew  that  I  loved  you  ?  " 

"  These  things  must  be  said.  You  have  to  be  very 
sure." 

"  You  know  it  now." 

"  But  I  am  a  German  girl." 

"  I  hear  you  say  so.  You  are  English  enough  for 
me." 

"  You  would  have  me  English  ?  " 

"  You  are.    You  shall  be." 

"  I  will  not." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  have  you  renounce  your  country 
lightly." 

"  Would  you  have  me  renounce  it  ?  " 

He  knitted  his  brows  and  regarded  her  whimsically, 
pretending  to  an  ease  which  he  did  not  feel :  "  I  sup- 
pose that  might  be  most  convenient." 


AT  LAST  247 

She  said,  with  a  lightness  that  was  assumed  too, 
"  It's  a  tragical  position,  isn't  it  ?  You  might  write 
a  play  about  it  all.  And  I  should  have  to  be  the  vil- 
lain with  a  bomb  at  the  bottom  of  my  box." 

Their  little  jocularities  served  to  take  the  edge  off 
things,  but  they  looked  at  one  another  anxiously  and 
warily ;  each  feared  to  inflict  a  wound  and  each  feared 
to  yield  a  point.  He  said :  "  The  word  is  with  you. 
You  know  all  about  me  and  you've  lots  of  things  to 
tell  me  about  yourself.  Be  assured  of  my  sympathy." 

He  spoke  graciously  and  almost  formally.  Their 
emotions  seemed  to  have  chilled  a  little,  and  they  were 
conscious  of  something  deep  in  opposition;  at  least 
of  something  to  be  explored.  Yet  she  said :  "  Is  it  any 
use  going  into  it  all?  You  are  generous,  but  I  think 
you  are  not  generous  enough  for  that.  Ought  I  not 
to  say  so?  What's  the  use  of  pretending?  You're 
thinking  now :  '  I've  committed  myself.  How  can  I 
be  kind  to  her  and  get  away  ? ' ' 

"  It  is  not  so,"  he  said  gently,  and  yet  he  was  con- 
scious that  she  had  penetrated  to  an  element  in  his 
thoughts. 

"  We  must  be  honest  now,"  she  said.  "  We  must 
both  be  honest." 

"  You  begin." 

"I'll  begin  with  this,"  she  said.  "You  made  me 
happy.  I've  known  happiness.  Just  now,  I  mean. 
When  you  spoke — when  you  said — I  forgot  everything 
else  then.  I  shall  never  forget  that." 

He  said :  "  I  should  never  be  happy  again  if  I  lost 
you." 


248  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I  like  you  to  say  that.    I  hope  it  won't  be  true." 

"  You  mean  that  I  shan't  lose  you  ?  " 

"  That  was  not  what  I  meant." 

"  To  lose  you !  I'm  trying  to  be  honest,  you  see. 
I  try  to  face  the  idea.  And  I  can't." 

"  It  wasn't  right  to  spring  it  on  you  like  this." 

"  It  was  a  tremendous  surprise.  I've  been  stupid. 
There  was  always  something  strange  about  you.  De- 
liciously  strange.  German?  Why!  You're  as  Eng- 
lish as  can  be.  What  do  you  mean  by  German  ?  " 

"  German  father,  German  mother.  Born  in  Ger- 
many." 

"  I  love  you." 

"  Your  impulses  are  beautiful  and  yet  you're  think- 
ing all  the  time." 

"  I  love  you." 

"  I  shall  always  have  that." 

"  German  indeed !  " 

"It's  not  my  fault,  is  it?" 

"  Welcome  to  England !  " 

"  That  can't  be." 

"  As  my  wife " 

"  I  fear  that  will  never  be,  my  friend." 

"  I  ask  you  to  marry  me.  I  beg  for  that  great 
honor  and  happiness." 

"  You  are  generous — from  your  own  point  of  view." 

"How?" 

"  I  am  German." 

"  You  reiterate  it.  As  my  wife  you  would  be  an 
Englishwoman.  Many  Germans  are  on  our  side.  You 
saw  that  manifesto  in  the  papers  the  other  day?  It 


AT  LAST  249 

was  from  German-born  people  who  sympathized  with 
us." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  them." 

"  Right  and  wrong  come  before  nationality." 

"  Right  and  wrong  are  very  difficult  for  me,  but  I 
know  that  I'm  a  German." 

"  You  are  on  their  side  ?    You  want  them  to  win  ?  " 

"  I  want  peace." 

"  There  is  no  peace." 

"  I  want  a  quiet  place  in  the  country  and  cattle  feed- 
ing, trees  and  clouds  and  little  brooks." 

"  That  is  what  the  Germans  are  destroying." 

"  And  not  they  alone.  They  are  a  very  great  na- 
tion. Their  enemies  close  in  upon  them.  Our  ene- 
mies." 

"  Would  you  go  back  to  Germany  ?  " 

"  Then  I  should  hate  them  for  making  war  on  you. 
It  is  misery  for  me  every  way.  There  is  no  place 
in  the  world  for  me." 

He  said :  "  Your  place  is  with  me." 

"  And  rather  than  lose  me  you  would  have  me  a 
little  baser  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  You  cannot  be  base." 

"  Every  day,  everywhere,"  she  said,  "  I  see  and 
hear  these  appeals  to  patriotism.  They're  placarded 
on  the  walls  and  shouted  in  the  streets.  You  are  to 
crush  Germany.  I  am  a  German  woman.  I  am  close 
and  silent  for  I  am  no  fool.  I  only  speak  of  it  to 
you  and  that  because  I  must.  And  it  would  be  very 
convenient  to  cover  up  my  tracks  and  marry  you.  I 
might  do  it.  My  mother's  dead  now.  They're  all 


250  TRUE  LOVE 

dead  that  matter.  I  was  a  little  girl  when  we  left 
Germany.  It's  a  memory  that  has  gone  fainter.  You 
would  have  me  wipe  it  out  and  become  a  proper  Eng- 
lishwoman? Why  not?" 

He  waited  for  her  to  continue,  and  she  said :  "  I 
am  not  that  kind." 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  hate  to  stress  the  point  but 
those  people  are  not  like  you.  I  think  it  was  mon- 
strous of  them  to  begin  the  war,  but  let's  agree  that 
there's  room  for  dispute  over  that — these  politics  are 
puzzling.  Yes,  but  they're  stained  with  crimes,  they've 
been  shockingly  barbarous.  I'm  afraid  there's  no 
doubt  about  that." 

"  Is  it  in  our  blood  ?  "  she  said.  "  Do  you  think 
that?  You  are  thinking:  Is  there,  deep  down  in  her, 
something  different  from  me,  something  savage  and 
wicked  ?  Stop ; "  she  said,  checking  his  protest. 
"  How  can  you  help  thinking  that  ?  I've  asked  my- 
self that  question.  I've  been  frightened  by  all  the  talk 

and  noise.    And  if  we  married  and  had  a  child " 

she  bowed  her  head. 

Geoffrey  said :  "  What  happiness,  my  dear !  " 

"  I  must  hurt  you,"  she  said,  "  and  myself.  You 
would  hear  that  child  crying  some  time  and  you  would 
think:  She  had  a  German  mother — I  think  of  it  as  a 
girl — she  has  a  German  mother  and  the  Germans  are 
cruel." 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried.  "  You  must  not  say  such 
things.  It's  shocking." 

"You  see,  I  have  shocking  ideas,"  she  said,  and 
she  might  have  been  speaking  triumphantly. 


AT  LAST  251 

"  You  don't  think  it ;  you  don't  Relieve  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  many  things.  I  think  them  over  and  over. 
I  think  till  I  can  think  no  more.  No,  I  do  not  believe 
it.  The  Germans  I  knew  were  kind  and  good.  They 
can't  have  altered  like  that.  I  don't  know  what's  true 
and  what  isn't.  Perhaps  nations  get  too  soft  some- 
times. Perhaps  you  can  be  very  great  and  very  noble . 
and  a  little  too  cruel.  Perhaps  I'm  not  worthy  to  be  a 
German.  If  you  English  were  beaten  and  humbled  I 
think  I  could  become  an  Englishwoman." 

Geoffrey  said :  "  That  will  never  be." 

"  The  simplest  thing,"  she  said,  "  would  be  for  us 
to  quarrel  and  be  done." 

"  It  would  never  be  done." 

"  A  sad,  kind  friendship  ?  "  she  said. 

"  That's  no  good." 

They  paused  and  again  they  were  conscious  of  the 
teashop  and  of  their  waitress  eyeing  them  curiously, 
not  without  sympathy.  She  had  often  seen  lovers  dis- 
sembling at  these  tables,  though  commonly  they  did 
it  more  plausibly  than  these.  She  was  not  very  at- 
tractive nor  very  young  and  so  must  take  her  romance 
in  small  instalments  at  second-hand. 

Sibyl  began  to  draw  on  a  glove  and  then  took  it 
off  again.  She  hesitated,  glancing  about  her  as  if 
for  assistance,  and  then  she  said :  "  There's  something 
else  I  must  tell  you." 

He  said :  "  You've  told  me  very  little." 

She  began  a  pathetically  dogged  narrative.  He 
learnt  that  her  real  name  was  Elisabeth  Wiedemann, 
that  her  father  had  been  "  some  sort  of  merchant " 


252  TRUE  LOVE 

in  Hamburg.  He  was  little  more  now  than  a  dim, 
kindly  memory,  for  he  had  died  when  she  was  seven 
or  eight.  "  Yes,  he  was  kind,"  she  said ;  "  he  was 
gentle  and  affectionate,  I  know.  He  did  not  want  to 
harm  people,  I  think.  You  will  not  believe  that." 

"  My  dear  girl !  "  exclaimed  Geoffrey.  "  Of  course 
I  will." 

"  Stay  a  little,"  she  said,  and  then,  to  his  surprise, 
she  began  to  laugh.  It  was  a  mirthless  laugh,  the 
ghost,  the  skeleton  of  a  laugh;  it  wasn't  like  a  laugh 
at  all.  He  waited  in  some  consternation  and  she  said : 
"  I'm  getting  silly.  I  find  this  very  hard." 

"  Another  time,"  he  suggested. 

"  It's  got  to  be  done."  And  then  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way  that  was  very  well  assumed  she  told  him  that  after 
her  father  had  died  she  and  her  mother  had  come  to 
London.  As  she  paused  and  looked  at  him  it  seemed 
incumbent  on  him  to  say  "  Why  ?  " 

"  You  shall  hear." 

She  paused  again  and  he  asked  if  she  had  any 
brothers  and  sisters.  She  shook  her  head  and  then 
she  said.  "  That  makes  it  seem  less  complicated, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Uncles,  aunts?" 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of." 

"Friends?" 

"  Not  many  friends." 

"Well?  "he  said. 

"  I  told  you  that  Wiedemann  was  my  real  name. 
When  we  came  to  England  we  changed  it  to  Hoff- 
mann." 


AT  LAST  253 

"Why?" 

"And  then  I  became  Sibyl  Drew.  I'm  full  of 
aliases.  I'm  a  suspicious  character.  Do  you  wonder 
that  I  laughed?  The  joke  is  against  you.  I  wish 
I  didn't  like  you  and  then  I  could  laugh  properly. 
You  behave  angelically,  but  it's  too  bad.  Three  dif- 
ferent names !  " 

"  A  fourth  and  then  you'll  stop." 

"  How  hopeless  it  is !  No  woman  could  be  good 
enough  to  make  it  worth  your  while.  I'm  not." 

"  Let  me  judge  of  that." 

"  It  gets  worse.  Hear  me  out,  but  don't  say  any- 
thing kind." 

"  Go  on." 

"  My  mother  was  very  musical.  She  was  an  ama- 
teur but  a  real  one.  We  had  no  money — very  little. 
She  taught  music  in  London — I  hardly  know  how  she 
got  started — some  German  introductions,  I  think. 
And  she  taught  me — music  and  other  things.  Then  I 
went  to  school.  What  does  it  matter?  I  cannot  talk 
about  my  mother.  I  should  cry.  I've  been  to  a  board- 
ing-school. Quite  a  good  one,  and  I  don't  know  how 
she  afforded  it.  I'm  educated  in  a  way." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  a  queer  little  assumption  of 
dignity,  and  he  nodded,  wondering  whether  there  was 
anything  he  could  do  or  say  that  she  would  like.  She 
went  on :  "  My  mother  had  to  take  to  playing  dance 
music — dancing  classes.  I  had  left  school  and  I  helped 
her.  We  met  theatrical  people.  They  are  not  so  bad 
as  you  think.  They  gave  us  tickets.  I  once  saw  Irving 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.  It  was  just  a  chance — music, 


254  TRUE  LOVE 

dancing,  acting.     I  had  to  take  what  I  could  get. 
What  does  it  matter?    I  drifted  here." 

"Your  mother?" 

"  She  died  about  two  years  ago." 

"  You're  all  alone." 

"  I've  lots  of  friends,  of  course.  I  mean  I'm 
friendly  with  lots  of  people.  That  is — I  have  been." 

"  You've  no  tie  with  Germany?" 

"  You  don't  need  a  tie  with  your  country." 

"  Why  did  you  leave  it?  " 

"And  why  did  we  change  our  name?  You  want 
to  know  that?" 

"  Tell  me  what  you  like.    Only  what  you  like." 

"  I  must  tell  you  all.    All  that  matters." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  child." 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  that?  " 

"  You  are  like  a  child  confessing  something — a 
proud  child." 

"  Am  I  proud  ?  Of  what  ?  I'm  going  to  crawl  in 
the  dust.  My  father  was  a  criminal.  We  left  Ham- 
burg and  we  changed  our  name.  It  had  become, 
shameful.  Yes,  the  name  stank." 

"  But  you  were  only  a  child." 

"  If  I  am  bad  you  mustn't  judge  Germans  by  me." 

"  I  shall  not  judge  you  by  them." 

"  It  was  a  notorious  affair.  People  were  ruined.  It 
seems  we  had  to  go.  I  didn't  understand,  but  my 
mother  told  me  something  afterwards — a  little.  I 
became  very  curious,  but  I  couldn't  question  her.  My 
father  was  a  ghost  between  us.  She  made  a  pious 
memory  of  him  and  I  wanted  to  understand.  How 


AT  LAST  255 

could  she  explain,  poor  woman?  l5he  was  very  good, 
very  brave,  but  she  couldn't  do  that.  I  wanted  to 
know  everything.  I  resented  it — that  I  shouldn't 
know.  He  was  my  father.  I  might  have  been  kinder 
to  her.  We  were  never  estranged — oh,  no ! — but  she 
always  had  a  little  dim  fear  that  I  would  make  her 
tell  me  more.  If  I  had  liked  I  might  have  given  her 
the  assurance  she  wanted.  She  didn't  want  things  said 
right  out ;  that  would  have  been  too  much.  I  had  that 
little  bit  of  cruelty  in  my  nature — that  I  wouldn't  give 
her  peace.  Is  that  because  I  am  German?  Are  we 
cruel  ?  But  he  was  my  father." 

Geoffrey  said :  "  Was  it  in  his  lifetime  that  he — that 
they— 

"  I  suppose  that  things  became  difficult.  It  was  all 
found  out  after  his  death — after  his  suicide." 

She  spoke  in  an  even  voice  and  she  did  not  meet  his 
eyes  now ;  she  seemed  to  be  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
He  wanted  her  to  look  at  him  for  he  had  no  words  for 
such  an  occasion.  His  face  was  eloquent,  but .  she 
would  not  look  at  it.  She  continued :  "  I  don't  remem- 
ber much  about  it — not  accurately.  I've  a  vision  of 
my  mother,  very  pale,  trying  to  fasten  my  cloak  and 
strangely  bungling.  I  didn't  want  to  go  out,  for  it 
wasn't  the  time  when  I  went  out  and  then  I  tried 
to  get  her  to  come  with  me.  She  didn't  seem  to  under- 
stand, and  then  the  front  door  was  opened  and  some 
people  were  there.  I  was  snatched  away  and  pushed 
into  a  room.  I  screamed  in  passion  and  fear.  There 
was  a  shuffling  of  feet  and  movements  outside  the 
door.  I  became  quiet.  I  was  trembling,  and  immedi- 


256  TRUE  LOVE 

ately  my  mother  came  in.  We  sat  on  the  floor  holding 
to  one  another  for  a  long  time.  All  that  is  very  vivid 
to  me.  Why  do  I  tell  you  all  this?  We  are  only 
Germans." 

"  You  mustn't  say  that." 

"  But  I  keep  feeling  like  that.  All  our  agony,  all 
our  crimes  if  you  like — and  you  say — you  think — they 
are  only  Germans.  You  should  be  sorry  for  us." 

"  The  time  may  come  for  that." 

"  We  can't  speak  to  one  another  without  hurting," 
she  cried.  "  How  then,  could  we — I  feel  that  I  must 
tell  you  these  things  about  myself.  And  all  the  time 
there's  a  great  gulf  between  us.  You  are  kind  and 
generous  and  you  want  me  to  be  English — to  be  as 
English  as  I  can — and  then — you  do  mean  that? — 
we  are  to  be  lovers.  And  I'm  half  English,  I  suppose, 
from  living  here  all  the  time,  and  I've  liked  the  Eng- 
lish. Would  you  think  better  of  me  then  if  I  said: 
Germany's  wicked ;  I'll  shake  it  off  and  be  all  English, 
if  you'll  let  me?  Would  you  like  me  better  if  I  were 
cowardly  and  base?  Perhaps  Germany's  all  wrong. 
These  things  are  too  difficult  for  me.  I  know  there 
are  kind  and  noble  people  there.  It's  a  great  nation. 
I  think  it's  the  greatest  on  the  earth." 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  more  of  yourself  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Why  should  I  bother  you  with  my  family  af- 
fairs?" 

"  They're  mine  too." 

"  No." 

"  You  talk  of  baseness.  Do  you  expect  me  to  say : 
This  girl's  German.  I'll  have  none  of  her." 


AT  LAST  257 

"  No,  you'd  be  punctilious  but  I^won't  let  you." 

"Punctilious!    I'm  base  at  heart,  then?" 

"  It's  very  difficult,  my  friend." 

"  Tell  me  more." 

"  You  want  to  know  about  my  father  ?  " 

"  If  you  like." 

"  I  felt  it  wasn't  fair  to  him  that  I  shouldn't  know. 
It  was  terrible  that  he  should  have  died  like  that.  As 
I  grew  older  I  pitied  him  very  much  and  yet  I  didn't 
know  how  to  pity  because  I  knew  so  little.  His  por- 
trait was  in  my  mother's  room,  and  I  found  another 
queer  old  faded  thing  that  I  framed  and  hung  up  in 
mine.  Are  the  criminals  so  much  worse  than  the 
others?  Christ  pitied  and  loved  them.  I  know  I'm 
not  like  Christ.  I'm  secret  and  bitter.  I've  never 
talked  to  any  one  like  this  before.  I  don't  know  what 
things  I'm  going  to  say.  I  don't  know  whether  this 
will  be  a  relief  to  me  or  whether,  presently,  I  shall  be 
vexed  and  ashamed.  You  listen  to  me  kindly  and  piti- 
fully but — pity!  pity!  I  want  something  different 
from  that.  We  Germans  are  not  pitiful,  are  we? 
Then  we  won't  ask  for  pity." 

"  You  pitied  your  father." 

"  I  wanted  to  understand.  It  was  not  till  after  my 
mother's  death  that — there  were  letters  that  she  hadn't 
destroyed.  It  wasn't  enough.  I  wanted  to  under- 
stand. He  was  my  father." 

He  found  her  hand  under  the  table  and  grasped  it. 
She  extricated  it  gently.  She  continued :  "  I  had  a 
little  money.  A  few  pounds.  I  went  to  Hamburg  and 
saw  some  of  the  people  we  had  known.  It  was  so 


258  TRUE  LOVE 

long  ago  and  they  were  muddled  and  couldn't  remem- 
ber very  well.  Or  they  were  kind  and  told  me  lies 
and  didn't  want  me  to  bother.  I  saw  lawyers — his 
lawyer.  He  was  an  old  man  and  didn't  understand 
what  I  wanted.  He  thought  I  was  after  money.  The 
judge  was  dead.  Perhaps  I  couldn't  have  got  to  see 
him,  anyhow. 

"  Then  I  went  to  libraries  to  see  the  old  newspapers, 
and  to  one  or  two— two — newspaper  offices.  They  let 
me  look  at  dirty  old  bound  volumes.  They  were  sus- 
picious of  me.  I  had  to  persist.  I  was  a  nuisance. 
When  they  knew  what  I  wanted  they  were  kind.  I 
couldn't  explain  to  every  one.  There  was  always  the 
danger  that  I  should  become  emotional. 

"  I  made  it  out  fairly  well.  There  was  no  getting 
away  from  it.  I  don't  think  I  need  try  to  explain  it 
all  to  you.  He  had  done  wrong.  He  was  a  criminal. 
If  I  could  have  talked  with  him  I  might  have  under- 
stood better.  All  that  I  learnt  is  only  one  side  of 
it.  I  don't  know  why  he  did  it.  I  came  back  very 
dejected." 

Geoffrey  pushed  aside  crockery  and  seized  her  hand 
above  board.  "  But  this  was  a  wonderful  thing  to  do," 
he  said.  "  You're  a  noble  creature.  You're  all  cour- 
age and  truth — yes,  and  pity.  I'm  overwhelmed  with 
admiration." 

She  snatched  her  hand  away  and  fumbled  for  her 
handkerchief.  He  saw  the  tears  welling  in  her  eyes. 
The  waitress,  glancing  out  at  them  from  behind  a 
screen,  saw  her  mopping  her  eyes  and  was  ready  to 
take  her  side  in  this  lovers'  quarrel.  Perhaps  they  had 


AT  LAST  259 

made  it  up,  and  presently  it  appeared  that  it  was  so. 
Sibyl  looked  suddenly  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist  and 
started  up.  "  Oh,  dear !  "  she  said. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  commiseratingly. 

"  Look  at  the  time.  I  have  to  act.  I  can't  go  home 
now.  And  I  must  eat." 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  Midland,"  he  said. 

"  There  isn't  time.    And  I  hate  it." 

"  Since  they've  cleared  out  the  German  waiters,"  he 
ventured,  and  they  laughed,  she  rather  distractedly. 
She  knitted  her  brows,  gazing  at  the  watch,  and 
beckoned  to  the  waitress. 

"Is  it  too  late?"  she  said.  "Could  I  have  an 
egg"? 

"  I  thought  you  were  just  going,"  the  waitress  said 
doubtfully. 

"  We  were,  but — I  wouldn't  be  long.  It  would  be 
so  kind  of  you.  I  missed  the  time." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  I  might,"  said  the  woman.  "  I'm 
alone  here  now  and  I've  got  to  lock  up.  You'll  want 
another  cup  of  tea."  And  then  she  brightened  de- 
cisively and  said :  "  We've  got  to  help  one  another  in 
these  times.  I'll  do  it." 

"  Yes,  to  help  one  another,"  said  Sibyl.  "  Do  you 
hate  the  Germans?  If  a  German  woman  asked  you 
for  an  egg  would  you  poison  it  ?  " 

"  You  can't  poison  eggs,"  said  Geoffrey  lightly. 

"  If  they're  scrambled  ?  "  said  Sibyl,  and  continued : 
"  Oh,  heavens  !  what  nonsense !  " 

The  woman  said :  "  You're  not  German,  are  you  ?  " 

Sibyl  turned  to  Geoffrey :  "  Am  I  German  ?  " 


260  TRUE  LOVE 

"  About  as  German  as  I  am,"  he  said,  "  and  I  shall 
soon  be  fighting  them,  I  suppose." 

"  I'd  serve  you,  whether  or  not,"  said  the  woman. 
"  It's  not  my  business  to  judge  folk.  Now  what'll  you 
have?" 

"A  boiled  egg,  some  bread  and  butter,  tea,"  said 
Sibyl. 

"  I'll  have  the  same,"  he  said. 

"You?" 

"  I'm  in  at  this,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going  to  the  theater, 
too." 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  You  are  going 
to  see  me  act  to-night?  That  will  be  very  interesting." 

"  If  it  won't  distress  you,"  he  said ;  "  if  it  won't 
make  it  more  difficult." 

"  It  will  be  more  exciting,"  she  said. 

"  And  you've  not  had  excitement  enough  ?  " 

"  I  might  have  been  very  flat.  I'd  rather  be  ex- 
cited." 

"  And  will  the  flatness  come  at  last  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  alone  then." 

This  sunk  into  his  mind.  But  when,  with  a  funny 
air  of  resolution,  she  called  out  to  the  waitress :  "  I'll 
have  two  eggs,  please,"  he  said :  "  Oh !  You're  mag- 
nificent. Is  this  acting?  Is  this  part  of  the  show?" 

They  had  been  standing  and  now  she  sat  down.  "  I 
don't  think  I  like  that,"  she  said.  "  There's  some  sort 
of  kind  intention.  To  stimulate  me?  I  don't  need  it. 
We  may  hurt  one  another  any  minute." 

"  Till  we  have  our  perfect  understanding." 

"  Nay,  it's  all  shifting  and  changing." 


AT  LAST  261 

The  waitress  put  her  head  round  the  screen :  "  Will 
the  gentleman  have  two  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Geoffrey ;  "  a  dozen  if  you  like. 
I'll  have  exactly  what  madam  has." 

"Madam?"  said  Sibyl. 

"  I'll  say  Mrs.  Arden  if  you  like." 

"  Let  us  play  at  it  a  little  longer." 

"  I  am  not  playing." 

"  I  have  something  on  my  mind,"  she  said.  "  Did  I 
deny  my  nation  just  now.  '  Before  the  cock  crows ' 
— I  mean  when  that  woman  asked  me — I  don't  think 
it  was  for  myself.  I  thought  in  a  moment  that  it  was 
hard  for  you  and  that  you  came  here  often.  I'm  very 
ready.  I'm  a  cunning  prevaricator." 

"  Why !    It  was  I  that  did  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  corrupt  you,"  but  she  said  it  tenderly. 

They  settled  down  to  their  intimate  little  meal  and 
the  waitress  ministered  to  them  benevolently  and 
brought  toast  and  cakes.  Geoffrey  wanted  to  give 
her  half-a-crown,  but  Sibyl  thought  it  might  offend 
her.  "  She  does  it  for  love,"  she  said,  and  Geoffrey 
felt  that  the  phrase  was  not  amiss.  He  was  fumbling 
with  sixpences  when  the  girl  said  she  didn't  want  any- 
thing from  soldiers ;  she  had  been  "  very  pleased  to 
oblige." 

"How  do  you  know  I  am  a  soldier?"  said  Geof- 
frey. 

"  I  saw  you  limping  when  you  came  upstairs,"  she 
said,  "  and  besides "  it  was  intimated  that  the  emo- 
tion of  their  interview  had  betrayed  it. 

"  I'm  not  a  soldier  yet,"  he  said,  "  though  I  shall  be." 


262  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I  hope  you'll  kill  plenty  of  those  Germans,"  she 
said  severely,  and  Sibyl  pretended  not  to  hear.  They 
both  thanked  her  warmly  and  she  was  rather  shy  and 
offhand  about  it.  Outside  in  the  nearly  empty  street 
Sibyl  took  Geoffrey's  arm. 

"  Let  us  go  on  playing,"  she  said.  "  Or  are  you 
afraid  of  meeting  somebody  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything." 

She  said :  "  This  is  the  happiest  day  of  all  my  life. 
I  shall  never,  never  forget  it." 

"  You  shall  have  many  happy  days." 

"  Let  us  go  on  playing,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  IDEA 

HE  left  her  at  the  stage-door,  and,  having  time  on  his 
hands  and  no  anxiety  about  getting  a  seat,  he  took  a 
thoughtful  turn  in  the  street.  He  was  tremendously 
elated,  quivering  with  tender  sympathies,  deeply  con- 
scious of  trouble.  His  thoughts  were  hardly  formed, 
but  he  considered  what  was  the  next  thing  to  do.  He 
must  tell  Mary,  and  he  felt  that  he  wanted  to  talk  to 
Burke ;  he  wanted  reason  unobscured  by  witty  fancies. 
As  to  Mary  he  was  conscious  of  a  curiosity  about  the 
reception  of  his  news ;  to  tell  her  that  Sibyl  was  Ger- 
man would  be  a  peculiar  experience.  But  now  he  was 
intent  on  a  deeper  interest. 

It  was  one  of  those  half-baked  plays  by  amateurs 
in  ideas  that  the  repertory  theaters  have  loosed  on  us. 
Watching  the  beginnings  of  it  with  the  detachment 
which  he  could  not  always  achieve — for  the  critical 
concentration  is  a  restriction  too — he  realized  that 
what  he  might  seize  upon  eagerly  as  a  subject  to  write 
about  could  be  a  bit  of  a  bore  when  he  became  merely 
a  member  of  the  public.  Here  was  a  play  which  might 
be  the  starting  point  for  disputation  or  discussion,  but 
the  old  melodramas,  with  their  ritual  of  plot  and  pas- 
sion, were  better  fun.  When  Sibyl  appeared  it  was 
another  matter.  The  half -explored  femininities  of  the 

263 


264  TRUE  LOVE 

dramatist  gave  opportunities  for  refinement  and  Sibyl 
filled  in  all  the  gaps.  She  brought  life  to  the  play,  she 
gave  middling  ideas  in  fine  terms,  she  took  the  eye 
adorably.  There  she  was — poor  German  girl — de- 
lighting a  crowd  of  latent  hostility  and  wistfully  con- 
scious of  a  lover  who  had  his  hostilities  too.  He  was 
moved  and  he  was  greatly  interested.  He  had  taken 
his  seat  in  the  circle,  for  it  was  his  superfine,  half- 
jocular  theory  that  the  stalls  are  vulgar,  that  they  pre- 
tend to  an  intimacy  that  can  only  be  destructive.  Now 
he  wanted  to  be  nearer  to  her,  and  he  was  guilty  of 
borrowing  an  opera  glass.  Putting  it  to  his  eyes,  the 
scene  wobbled  close  to  him  and  then  he  caught  her, 
she  burst  upon  him  amazingly.  She  was  familiar; 
through  her  paint  she  was  surprisingly  familiar.  He 
tried  to  steady  the  glass,  but  it  shook  in  his  hands.  She 
did  familiar  things;  the  lift  of  her  head,  tricks  of 
speech,  were  carried  on  here  from  the  tea-shop,  it 
seemed.  Your  artist  cannot  be  infinite  in  detail  and 
cannot — indeed,  must  not— escape  from  her  own  per- 
sonality. When  you  know  her  she  must  continue  to 
be  what  you  know,  but  with  the  surprises  of  her 
nature,  too.  Some  kind  of  stilted  assumption  is 
possible,  and  Geoffrey  had  suffered  more  than  most 
under  the  egregious  character  actor,  but  even  with  this 
the  familiarities  peep  out.  Sibyl  was  one  of  those  who 
absorb  a  character  and  make  it  an  expression  of  her- 
self. To-night,  when  there  was  little  to  absorb,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  could  detect  a  critical  irony,  an 
added  charm,  a  slight,  subtle  message  sent  to  him. 
Watching  her  intently  he  perceived  the  delicate  ad- 


THE  IDEA  265 

justments  of  her  own  temperament,  the  interpreta- 
tions of  her  generous  nature.  In  mere  cleverness,  in 
virtuosity,  it  was  all  surprising,  and  the  queer,  dis- 
concerting idea  came  to  him  that  these  Germans  are 
too  much  for  us.  He  was  a  lover  who  could  stray 
out  of  the  charmed  circle,  and  he  was  actually  con- 
scious of  jealousy,  of  apprehension.  Faintly,  perhaps, 
it  was  between  him  and  her ;  more  clearly  it  was  racial. 
They  are  ruthless,  it  seems,  but  are  they  more  capable 
of  the  refinements  too?  Are  we  getting  soft  and 
blunted  ?  An  Englishman  may  ask  himself  these  ques- 
tions. 

She  was  exquisite,  she  was  romantic,  and  yet  as  he 
watched  her  it  seemed  that  she  was  steadier  of  nerve 
than  he.  The  spectator  learns  humility,  though  he  may 
seek  to  reassure  himself  with  blatancies  of  criticism. 
Geoffrey's  ungenerous  thoughts  were  stifled  by  his 
pride  in  her;  it  seemed  that  his  generous  ones  were 
the  danger.  He  wanted  to  see  her  more  intimately, 
and  it  was  not  a  difficult  matter  for  him  to  get  behind 
the  scenes.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  realize  that  she  was 
vulnerable.  On  the  whole  he  was  a  lover  just  craving 
assurance. 

He  found  her  amongst  others,  and  there  were  some 
casual  recognitions  and  introductions.  She  was  merry 
and  she  looked  at  him  as  if  to  say :  See  what  I  can  do 
— and  yet  what  knowledge  is  between  us!  For  a 
moment  she  regarded  him  sadly,  tenderly,  and  then 
she  was  off  at  a  tangent  like  the  accomplished  actress 
with  her  trick  of  contrast.  He,  too,  had  to  support 
a  part,  and  he  held  his  own  tolerably  in  the  affabilities, 


266  TRUE  LOVE 

even  in  the  levities.  And  he  was  conscious  all  the 
time  that  this  was  a  garish  Sibyl,  that  this  was  a 
hectic,  unreal  life,  and  that  they  must  be  sober  pres- 
ently. Her  face  was  bedaubed  with  paint  as  he  had 
seen  it  on  that  night  of  Alice  Dean,  and  even  now  he 
could  reflect  passingly  that  it  was  strange  that  the 
noble  instrument  of  the  actor's  art  must  be  coarsened 
for  the  art's  supreme  expression.  It  was  not  a  time 
to  think  things  out.  She  was  an  entrancing  creature 
now,  disguised,  and  yet  emphasized.  There  was  some- 
thing wrong,  for  beauty  magnified  is  not  beauty,  but 
Sibyl  herself  came  quivering  through  the  disguise. 
She  was  one  in  a  gaudy  world,  and  he  felt  himself 
rather  coldly  outside  it.  The  paint  had  a  fascinating 
quality  and  she  lurked  behind  it.  There  was  no  evil, 
but  she  was  coarsely  baited.  Ideals  were  remote  and 
he  was  gaspingly  conscious  of  the  senses. 

And  then  she  drew  him  aside  into  a  sufficient  pri- 
vacy, and  eagerly,  breathlessly  she  spoke  to  him;  she 
gave  him  her  idea.  "  I've  been  thinking,"  she  said ; — 
when?  he  wondered,  but  he  did  not  interrupt  her — 
"  Oh,  I've  thought  of  something.  Is  it  possible  ?  Is 
it  possible — Geoffrey?  You  are  English.  I  am  Ger- 
man. We  must  face  that.  There  is — there  must  be — 
something  noble  in  both.  Grant  that.  Grant  me  that, 
Geoffrey.  Oh,  be  generous!  My  dearest.  I  am 
German." 

His  general  assent,  his  tenderness,  his  attempt  to 
placate  her  were  brushed  aside  impatiently.  "  Listen ! 
Listen !  "  she  cried.  "  Don't  be  stupid.  I  mean  some- 
thing. Oh,  dear !  There's  no  time.  They'll  want  me. 


THE  IDEA  267 

Listen!  It's  this:  We  cannot  agree.  We  must  not 
agree.  Not  entirely.  You  shall  be  English.  And  I 
am  partly  English  too.  But  I  am  German.  Listen 
with  sympathy.  You  shall  champion  your  nation,  I 
mine.  We  must  be  generous  with  one  another  and 
help  one  another.  That  means  that  you  must  help  me. 
You  can  overcome  me  in  argument  but  you  must  not. 
You  must  think  of  things  that  I  ought  to  say.  I  could 
admire  the  English  tremendously  if  they  would  not 
always  be  saying  that  we  are  base  and  cruel.  Do  you 
know  that  in  Germany  they  say  that  of  you  ?  And  it's 
true  of  us,  you'll  say?  Then  say  it  compassionately, 
Geoffrey.  Pity  me.  Cannot  we  be  chivalrous  enemies 
and  lovers  too?  I  see  it  as  beautiful,  beautiful.  Is  it 
possible  ?  And  if  not,  all  is  over  " — her  voice  sank — 
"  between  us." 

He  was  moved.  He  was  overwhelmed  if  he  was 
not  convinced.  Somewhere  in  the  cold  fastnesses  of 
the  brain  a  warning  sounded ;  he  was  dimly  conscious 
of  a  remote,  unexplored  doubt.  Yet  her  appeal  was 
to  the  mind,  to  the  imagination.  It  was  a  compelling 
idea,  and  he  could  kindle  to  it.  He  could  even  see  it 
objectively  as  a  great  lesson  to  the  world.  She 
watched  him  eagerly  while  he  relaxed,  yielding  him- 
self to  the  current,  and  then  passed  through  some 
phase  of  resistance,  some  mere  formality  of  inspec- 
tion. She  perceived  the  check,  and  said :  "  I  won't 
renounce.  I'll  be  like  the  heathen  who  wouldn't  be 
baptized.  He  would  go  to  hell  with  his  tribe." 

Geoffrey  said :  "  It's  a  noble  idea.  Yes.  But  we 
might  come  to  think  alike.  Are  we  never  to  agree  ?  " 


268  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I  cannot  see  it  so." 

"  You're  in  love  with  your  idea." 

"And  you?" 

"  I'm  in  love  with  you." 

She  faltered,  she  returned  to  misgivings.  Pitiably, 
she  became  concerned  again  with  small,  present  mat- 
ters. She  asked  him  how  he  liked  "  this  fudge,"  and 
made  a  flattering  reference  to  Alice  Dean.  Oh,  she 
was  clever !  She  thought  ahead.  These  Germans  with 
their  peaceful  penetration!  He  must  confess  to  her 
that  idea  of  her  as  the  typical  German,  but  not  now. 

She  left  him  and  he  had  a  few  words  with  a  stout 
little  comedian  whose  manners  were  but  a  trifle  on  the 
hither  side  of  familiarity.  Geoffrey  was  assured  that 
"  The  Drew  "  was  great  in  this  play,  and  there  were 
hints  at  London  chances.  The  man  was  not  really 
offensive,  but  this  environment  for  his  fine  flower 
jarred  a  little  on  the  sensitive  lover.  He  went  back 
to  his  seat,  and  as  Sibyl  did  not  appear  on  the  stage 
immediately  he  could  range  his  thoughts.  He  saw 
Sibyl  and  himself  with  an  intimate,  particular  life  of 
their  own,  and  a  good-natured  tolerance  for  such  a 
world  as  that  behind  the  scenes.  And  their  intimacy 
would  not  be  just  in  terms  of  the  current  culture, 
though  that  might  be  involved ;  it  would  be  secret  and 
deep.  Its  nature?  He  was  baffled  here,  for  he  had 
yet  to  know  her,  and  he  became  conscious  of  some- 
thing crude  and  artificial  in  his  imaginings.  But  what 
of  hers?  From  the  vagueness  emerged  her  idea — the 
idea  of  a  chivalry  of  the  mind,  of  an  opposition  which 
should  be  in  terms  of  sympathy.  But  surely  that  must 


THE  IDEA  269 

bring  ultimate  reconcilement,  agreement.  And  if  this 
were  so  should  they  be  content  with  their  own  salva- 
tion? Their  intimacy  seemed  in  danger  of  publicity, 
even  of  preachments. 

He  heard  her  laugh  "  off,"  and  thrilled  to  the  sound 
of  it.  She  had  a  bravura  entrance  and  directed  it, 
he  was  sure,  at  him.  She  moved  about  the  stage  with 
pretty  hectorings,  she  was  just  charmingly  short  of 
stridency,  she  took  it  all  at  a  great  pace,  and  perhaps 
the  precious  ideas  of  the  play  were  slurred  a  little. 
He  was  conscious  of  her  wistful,  doubting  heart.  He 
took  the  opera  glasses  again  and  followed  her.  And, 
from  time  to  time,  it  seemed  that  his  sympathy  de- 
tected the  droop  between  one  jolly  outburst  and  an- 
other. If  so,  he  was  the  only  one  and  the  house  rang 
with  her  triumph. 

He  waited  for  her  at  the  stage-door,  and  when  she 
came  he  added  his  own  tribute  to  her  success.  It  was 
heartily  phrased  in  common  friendliness  and  they  had 
their  happy,  easy  moment  in  the  swim  of  things. 
"  You  make  me  happy,"  she  said,  and,  again,  "  It's 
a  great  night."  She  seemed  already  to  look  upon  the 
night  as  something  accomplished,  a  possession  for  the 
coming  years.  She  barely  referred  to  her  idea  but 
they  were  both  conscious  of  it.  Parting  from  him 
at  the  door  of  her  lodgings,  she  said :  "  I  wish  I  could 
send  my  love  to  Mary.  I  dare  not.  She  can  be  gen- 
erous, but  she  doesn't  love  me.  Why  should  she?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"  I  hate  the  women  who  are  charming  only  to  men," 
she  said. 


270  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I  happen  to  know,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  that  you're  a 
favorite  in  the  company — with  them  all." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course  I'm  rather  a  good  sort,"  she 
said.  "  That's  nothing." 

He  chuckled  at  this  claim,  but  it  did  occur  to  him 
that  the  good  sort  would  not  inevitably  appeal  to 
Mary.  They  stood  together  doubtfully  for  a  moment, 
embarrassed  by  her  reservations  and  the  possible  pub- 
licities of  the  street.  Standing  close  beside  her  he 
volleyed  endearments  suddenly  and  hotly.  She 
trembled  under  them  and  sank  into  his  arms.  He 
held  her  tenderly,  he  released  her  reluctantly.  She 
said  no  word,  but  he  had  kissed  her  lips.  She  fumbled 
with  a  latchkey,  she  entered  the  house  gropingly,  and, 
it  seemed,  sadly.  He  felt  the  bitterness,  the  frus- 
tration of  parting.  She  had  not  looked  back  at 
him. 

He  took  his  way  homeward,  regaining  a  certain 
mental  jauntiness.  Things  weren't  easy,  but,  after  all, 
this  was  life.  Such  was  a  superficial  reflection  while 
the  ecstasies  seethed  beneath.  And  to-night,  of  all 
nights,  he  was  importuned  by  a  poor  creature  of  the 
streets.  His  discouragements  were  so  gentle  that  they 
were  misunderstood.  She  persisted,  she  became  rather 
a  nuisance,  and  the  sentimental  gave  way  to  the  ir- 
ritable. But  he  could  not  be  harsh  to  a  woman  to- 
night, and  she  went  off  a  little  bewildered  with  a  dole 
of  silver.  "  Two  sister  vessels — here  is  one,"  he 
quoted  to  himself.  He  saw  his  sympathies  deepening, 
his  horizons  widening.  To-night  he  had  taken  a  great 
step  onward,  he  had  gained  rich,  intangible  things. 


THE  IDEA  271 

He  felt  capable  of  extraordinary  Sequence  and  there 
was  not  anything  that  he  could  not  understand.  This 
mental  clarity  was  delightful,  and  gave  him  the  sense 
of  power  and  ease.  It  was  not  applied  to  anything  in 
particular. 

With  a  slight  shock  he  remembered  that  he  was 
going  to  face  Mary,  and  he  had  a  despicable  little  de- 
sire that  she  should  not  have  waited  up  for  him.  Of 
course  she  was  there,  and  she  didn't  make  any  demand 
for  explanations  though  he  was  conscious  that  he  had 
not  been  quite  punctilious  in  this  matter  of  his  ab- 
sence to-night.  Perhaps  it  was  hardly  fair  to  Mary 
that  he  should  take  the  attitude  of  "  getting  it  over," 
but  he  plunged  into  the  subject,  standing  before  her. 
He  said,  "  Mary,  I've  something  to  tell  you,"  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  stiffened.  He  felt  discourage- 
ment, even  annoyance,  and  he  did  not  reflect  that  the 
poor  girl  might  be  trying  to  rally  herself  on  their  side. 
He  paused  and  she  waited,  and  then  he  announced  the 
fact.  "  I  am  engaged  to — to  Sibyl,"  he  said,  and  he 
was  conscious  that  the  use  of  her  Christian  name  alone 
was  aa  appeal.  In  a  stifled  voice  Mary  said,  "  Yes, 
Geoffrey,"  and  he  didn't  know  that  she  was  struggling 
with  herself,  angry  that  she  couldn't  control  her  emo- 
tion into  any  genial  form.  Hardening  a  little,  he 
continued,  "  I  learnt — she  told  me  a  strange  thing 
about  herself.  I  had  no  idea  of  it.  She  is  a  Ger- 
man." 

"  A  German?  "  said  Mary  in  frank  surprise. 

"  Both  father  and  mother.  They  are  dead.  She  is 
entirely  alone." 


272  TRUE  LOVE 

"  You  knew  nothing  about  her  ?  Yet  you  were  in- 
timate ?  " 

"  These  actors  seem  unattached.  You  don't  think 
of  them  in  connection  with  parents  and  a  home.  And 
she  has  neither." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Mary.  She  said  it  calmly,  and 
it  seemed  to  Geoffrey  that  she  was  accepting  a  burden 
with  a  sigh. 

"  She  says  you  can  be  generous,"  he  continued, 
"  and  yet  she  dared  not  send  you  her  love." 

He  spoke  in  an  even,  downright  tone,  conveying  the 
facts.  He  would  not  press  for  pathos.  He  waited 
for  her  to  speak  while  she  sat  there  thinking.  At  last : 
"  It  is  great  news,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  very  important.  I 
can't  say  the  right  thing.  I'll  try  to — I'll  try  to — to 
love  her.  She's  very  beautiful.  You  have  good  taste. 
I  know  it's  awfully  stupid  to  say  that.  I'm  not  pre- 
pared. No.  I'm  not  generous.  I  can  see  more  than 
I  feel.  We  must  be  very,  very  kind  to  her." 

"We?"  he  said. 

"  I  mean  that.    I  mean  you  too." 

"  You  think  I'm  likely  to  be  unkind?  " 

"  Think  how  easily  she  may  be  hurt." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I've  been  unkind  to  you." 

"  I  never  said  that.    I  didn't  mean  that." 

"But  it's  true?" 

"  Kindness  is  not  everything.  It's  no  use  being  kind 
perpetually.  You've  been  good." 

"  I  don't  know,  Mary.  There  are  times  when  I'm 
miserable  about  you.  If  you  died  or  went  away  I 
should  be  smitten  with  remorse." 


THE  IDEA  273 

"  Well,"  she  said.  "  You're  going  away  now.  Re- 
morse is  stupid."  And  then  she  said :  "  I'm  going  to 
be  awfully  nice  to  her." 

He  thanked  her  humbly  enough,  and  they  parted 
coolly,  wistfully.  And  Mary  lay  awake  for  hours 
wishing  that  things  were  different,  sounding  herself 
for  basenesses,  disentangling  the  intricate  threads  of 
remorse  and  reproach.  She  was  puzzled  with  herself, 
for  Geoffrey's  news  had  seemed  to  bring  her  a  great 
and  terrible  advantage.  So,  she  had  felt  it  first,  and 
she  could  not  reconcile  this  with  any  decent  conception 
of  herself.  The  girl  was  German  and  all  the  cruel  and 
cowardly  people  would  persecute  her.  She  wondered 
whether  the  poor  German  girl  was  sleeping  now. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS 

MARY  consented  almost  eagerly  to  the  proposal  that 
Sibyl  and  Burke  should  be  bidden  to  Sunday  night 
supper,  and  then,  curiosity  prevailing  over  the  simple 
desire  to  be  amiable,  she  said :  "  Mr.  Burke  certainly. 
Why  Mr.  Burke?" 

"I  think  a  lot  of  Burke,"  said  Geoffrey.  "He 
stands  for  sanity  and  friendliness." 

"  And  you  think  a  lot  of  Sibyl,"  she  said,  "  and 
things  that  are  equal  to  the  same  thing  are  equal  to 
one  another.  Is  this  something  deep  or  just  a  social 
occasion  ?  " 

"  I  think  you'll  find  it  works  out  all  right,"  he  said. 
And  then,  divining  her  dissatisfaction,  he  continued, 
"  Burke's  an  Irishman  and  capable  of  fun,  but  he's 
simple  and  solid  and  sincere."  He  felt  it  rather  ab- 
surd to  be  giving  his  friend  an  alliterative  character 
like  this  and  it  ruffled  him  slightly  to  find  Mary  per- 
sisting in  a  certain  blankness  of  aspect.  "  I  believe 
you  think  Sibyl  flimsy  because  she's  an  actress,"  he 
said.  "  What  a  Philistine  you  are,  Mary !  "  It  was 
good-natured  enough,  and  Mary  was  not  amiss  with, 
"  I  hope  she'll  find  Mr.  Burke's  solidity  flattering." 
She  added  slyly :  "  It'll  be  a  pity  if  he's  merely  Irish." 

In  their  few  meetings  she  had  pursued  loyally  her 
274 


LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS  275 

policy  of  being  awfully  nice  to-Sibyl,  who  recipro- 
cated the  sentiments  with,  perhaps,  the  addition  of  a 
shade  of  irony.  Mary  had  been  friendly  and  almost 
hearty,  and  Sibyl  had  positively  achieved  cheerfulness. 
Geoffrey  was  not  so  foolish  as  to  insist  on  intimacy, 
though  he  held  his  protests  in  reserve.  There  was 
nothing  very  cunning  in  his  selection  of  Burke  for  the 
fourth  at  their  supper-party,  though  it  had  occurred  to 
him  that  any  excess  of  downrightness  towards  the 
German  girl  would  react  on  Mary's  sympathies.  He 
wanted  to  look  at  Sibyl  through  Burke's  eyes — or  was 
it  for  Burke  to  see  her  through  his? 

Burke  came  first,  and  the  drawing-room  chill — 
Geoffrey  couldn't  help  feeling  that  Mary  lowered  the 
temperature — was  qualified  by  the  blunt  announce- 
ment. Burke  heard  for  the  first  time  that  Geoffrey 
was  engaged  and  that  Sibyl  was  German,  and  the 
good  fellow  blinked  nervously  under  the  news.  He 
turned  to  Mary,  whose  attitude  was  non-committal, 
and  though  he  pulled  himself  together  with  an  at- 
tempt at  congratulation  his  scared  sincerity  made  a 
queer  boggle  of  this.  And,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  Geof- 
frey now  that  it  was  too  bad  to  spring  this  on  Burke, 
who  had,  for  the  moment,  the  aspect  of  the  trapped. 
And  then  in  came  Sibyl,  looking  incredibly  English, 
beautiful  and  appealing.  She  was  at  her  best;  she 
was,  it  seemed,  even  a  little  overwhelming  to  come  in 
upon  quiet  folk  like  this.  Mary  greeted  her  gently, 
politely,  and  then  suddenly  took  her  into  her  arms. 
It  was  extraordinarily  generous ;  it  affected  Geoffrey 
very  much.  For  Sibyl  was,  indeed,  at  her  best  even 


276  TRUE  LOVE 

if  her  radiance  was  veiled;  as  the  opening  bud  is 
better  than  the  flower.  Her  beauty  conquered  Mary, 
and  it  seemed  to  Geoffrey  very  noble  to  be  conquered 
so.  The  two  women  held  one  another  closely,  and  then 
Sibyl  was  gently  pushed  away.  In  the  time  to  come 
Mary  and  Sibyl  were  to  sway  to  and  fro  in  attraction 
and  repulsion,  but  Geoffrey  would  remember  this 
scene.  He  had  a  vision  of  them  now  which  reversed 
old  prepossessions;  he  saw  Mary  as  impulsive  and 
changeable,  Sibyl  as  constant. 

Burke  looked  on  benevolently,  and  gallantly  at- 
tacked the  subject  of  the  weather.  The  other  greet- 
ings were  almost  perfunctory,  but  Sibyl  had  tears  in 
her  eyes.  Rapidly  she  captured  gaiety  while  Mary 
became  demure.  The  emotion  receded,  but  they  could 
not  at  once  lose  consciousness  of  it.  They  passed  into 
the  dining-room. 

By  accident  or  design — which  was  it,  Geoffrey  won- 
dered for  Mary  was  usually  alive  to  these  things — 
there  was  a  rather  heavy  collection  of  foliage  in  the 
middle  of  the  table.  Mary  and  Geoffrey  were  very 
much  hidden  from  one  another,  though  each  com- 
manded Sibyl  and  Burke.  There  was  a  degree  of 
hilarity  about  Burke.  Presently  he  might  go  away 
to  think  it  over,  but  now  the  good  fellow  was  doing 
his  best  for  the  company,  and  Sibyl  responded.  She 
kept  peeping  round  the  plants  to  see  him,  until  it  be- 
came a  joke,  and  Burke  peeped  round  at  the  other  side 
so  that  they  missed  one  another,  and  they  all  laughed 
like  children.  Geoffrey  was  for  removing  the  ob- 
struction, and  Sibyl  objected  because  "  it  gives  Mr. 


LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS  277 

Burke  a  touch  of  mystery."  Geoffrey  rose  and  laid 
hands  on  it,  and  Burke  objected  to  have  his  mystery 
tampered  with.  They  had  a  comic  struggle,  and  Geof- 
frey did  positively  remove  the  mass  of  greenery  to  the 
sideboard,  leaving  Burke,  as  Sibyl  expressed  it,  "  bare 
and  bleak."  It  brought  them  all  nearer  to  one  another, 
and  induced  a  wave  of  shyness.  And  then,  reverting 
to  "  the  touch  of  mystery,"  Geoffrey  suggested  that 
every  one  wanted  a  touch  of  something,  that  people 
were  very  nearly  right  and  didn't  require  any  gross 
reform.  Burke  insisted  that  Sibyl  should  apply  the 
principle  to  the  others  as  well,  and,  after  reflection, 
she  assigned  to  Mary  a  touch  of  sin.  Geoffrey  dared 
her  to  attempt  his  improvement,  and  was  left  cogitat- 
ing with  "  A  touch  of  brass." 

"And  yourself?"  cried  Burke. 

Geoffrey  said :  "  A  touch  of  paint." 

"  Red  paint?  "  said  Burke.  "  Would  you  paint  the 
lily?" 

"  No  explanations,"  said  Mary.  "  You  must  take 
it  or  leave  it." 

"  An  epigram,"  said  Geoffrey  rather  ponderously, 
"  is  the  indivisible  atom." 

Burke  said  they  were  getting  too  much  like  George 
Meredith,  and  that  he  wasn't  up  to  it.  He  con- 
sidered, however,  that  in  a  company  of  wits  there 
should  always  be  one  man  of  solid  sense  to  keep  things 
within  bounds.  Sibyl  said :  "  But  he  has  no  right  to 
be  witty  too." 

"  Then,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  a  beautiful  woman  has  no 
right  to  pay  compliments." 


278  TRUE  LOVE 

His  eyes, met  Sibyl's  and  she  blushed.  They  were 
happy  together;  Mary  was  the  benignant  hostess,  and 
Burke,  no  fool,  held  his  own  very  well  and  was  pleased 
at  it.  And  then  Sibyl  broke  the  surface.  They  had 
been  keeping  off  the  grimmer  preoccupations,  but  at 
some  distant  reference  by  Burke  she  turned  to  Geof- 
frey and  said :  "  Does  he  know  all  about  me  ?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid !  "  said  Geoffrey,  "  but  he  knows 
you're  a  sort  of  German." 

"  You  must  not  speak  like  that,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
German." 

"  I'm  sorry.    It  was  stupid,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  German's  very  like  English,  then,"  said 
Burke.  "  We'll  accept  you." 

"You  are  generous,  Mr.  Burke,"  she  said,  "but  I 
will  not  be  accepted." 

Poor  Burke  didn't  quite  know  where  he  was,  and 
glanced  at  Geoffrey,  who  was  inscrutable.  And  poor 
Sibyl,  now  and  in  the  days  to  come,  was  always  want- 
ing to  know  where  she  was.  "  I  know  I've  spoilt  it," 
she  said.  "  We  were  all  so  jolly  together.  And 
you're,  here,  Mr.  Burke,  as  the  sensible  friend  to  see 
how  nice  I  am  and  how  practicable  it  all  is.  I  know 
that's  it,  Geoffrey,  but  I  mustn't  be  disguised.  Per- 
haps you  believe  this  rubbish  about  spying,  Mr.  Burke. 
Governesses — and  why  not  actresses?  We're  very 
seductive,  you  know.  You  think  because  we're  Ger- 
man we're  capable  of  any  baseness  ?  " 

Burke  blundered  into  something  about  brave  spies 
who  loved  their  country.  Mary  said :  "  If  you'd  think 
less  of  country  and  nationality  there  need  be  no  spies." 


LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS  279 

Then,  generously,  she  said :  "  Sibyl  and  I  are  just  two 
human  beings,  and  you  must  be  decent  to  us." 

"  I'm  a  German,"  cried  Sibyl. 

"  And  you  love  your  country?  "  said  Mary  sharply. 
"  How  much  ?  Do  you  love  it  well  enough  to  betray 
us?" 

"  That  would  be  to  betray  myself." 

"  There's  something  above  country,  then,"  said 
Mary. 

"  There's  my  immortal  soul,  Mary.  You  know  I 
couldn't  come  here  to  betray  you.  It's  all  foolish- 
ness." 

Mary  pursued  her  point  distressingly :  "  Won't  your 
immortal  soul  take  care  of  itself  if,  for  the  sake  of 
this  country  of  yours,  you  take  a  risk?  Why  should 
you  not  betray  me,  or  I  you,  if  one's  country's  every- 
thing?" 

"  Because  we  are  two  human  beings,  Mary." 

They  were  both  trembling.  Geoffrey  was  perturbed, 
and  Burke  preserved  admirably  a  judicious  air.  Mary 
said:  "Of  course,  I  know  it's  ridiculous  to  think  of 
you  as  a  spy  or  a  traitor.  But  why  shouldn't  you  be? 
This  love  of  country  seems  to  be  answerable  for  every 
crime." 

"  It's  inhuman  not  to  love  your  country,"  said  Sibyl. 
"  Would  you  love  other  children  as  much  as  your 
own?" 

"  Nice  to  hear  these  young  people  accusing  one  an- 
other of  inhumanity  ;  " — Geoffrey  addressed  Burke, 
the  seeming  imperturbable — "  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

Burke,  with  a  deep  "  Please "  to  Mary's  hurried 


280  TRUE  LOVE 

invitation  to  a  helping,  considered  the  subject  dispas- 
sionately. "  I'm  a  bit  afraid  of  Miss  Drew,"  he 
said. 

"  Not  of  me?  "  cried  Mary.    "  That's  humiliating." 

Burke  eyed  her  gravely  and  her  attempt  at  gaiety 
wore  sharp  and  thin.  "  I'm  an  Irishman  in  England," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  make  much  of  all  the  blether  over 
there.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  romantic.  You've  got  to  be 
decent  with  the  people  about  you  wherever  you  are." 

Mary  said:  "You  should  be  passionately  for  Ire- 
land." 

She  checked  any  protests  against  inconsistency: 
"  Not  because  it's  Ireland.  Because  it's  neglected  and 
oppressed." 

"Neglected!"  said  Geoffrey.     "Oh,  Lord!" 

Sibyl  said :  "  Must  you  abandon  your  country  as 
soon  as  it's  great  ?  " 

Geoffrey,  striving  in  vain  for  the  mildly  pleasant, 
exclaimed,  "  Great  Heavens !  she's  an  Imperialist !  " 

"  No,"  said  Sibyl.  "  I  only  want  to  be  quiet  and 
happy.' 

"  That's  it,"  said  Mary.  "  That's  what  we  poor 
people  want.  Then  you  come  along  with  your  coun- 
try and  your  destiny  and  your  flag  and  you'll  commit 
any  crime." 

"  I  don't  see,  Mary,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  why  you 
shouldn't  be  passionately  for  England  now.  If  Sibyl's 
German  friends  get  their  way  we  stand  a  fair  chance 
of  being  oppressed." 

"  And  if  we  get  our  way  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Geoffrey.    "  You  can't  be  fair  after 


LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS  281 

a  war.  There's  a  mighty  momentum  about  it  and  the 
liberal  and  just  spirits  are  overwhelmed.  I'll  grant 
you  a  great  deal,  Mary." 

"  Then  let's  hope  that  nobody  will  win,"  she  said. 

"  And  so  the  beastly  war  will  go  on  for  ever,"  said 
Geoffrey.  "  No.  If  you'll  just  hold  Sibyl  in  her  chair 
for  a  moment  I'll  say  that  I  think  we're  a  trifle  better 
than  her  lot.  It's  better  that  we  should  win." 

"  I'm  holding  myself  tight  in  my  chair,"  said  Sibyl, 
and  to  Geoffrey  it  appeared  that  this  was  hardly  a 
jest.  "  We  are  great  and  strong  and  efficient  and  we 
might  enslave  the  world.  And  so  all  the  backwards 
and  inefficients  must  close  on  us  and  smother  us  and 
make  us  keep  pace  with  them.  And  they'll  say  hu- 
manity is  saved." 

"  And  we  shall  have  to  be  a  bit  nippy  to  do  it,"  said 
Burke. 

"  You're  afraid  of  us,  Mr.  Burke?  " 

"  If  they're  all  as  clever  as  you." 

"  Sibyl  was  brought  up  in  England,"  said  Geoffrey 
pleasantly.  "  It's  environment  that  does  it." 

"  Oh,  you  beware  of  German  babies !  "  she  said. 

And  then  she  blushed  furiously  and  pitifully,  per- 
ceiving that  there  might  be  a  double  meaning.  It  was 
agitating,  and  the  others,  in  their  commiseration,  could 
not  think  of  anything  to  turn  the  situation  neatly.  So 
she,  herself,  with  the  embarrassment  yet  upon  her,  the 
blood  fading  slowly  from  her  cheeks,  said  bravely: 
"  Geoffrey  and  I  are  going  to  snatch  something  beau- 
tiful out  of  all  this.  We  have  a  compact.  We  are 
not  going  to  be  small  and  mean.  He  will  be  very  gen- 


282  TRUE  LOVE 

erous  and  I  will  do  my  best.  Oh,  you'll  see !  We  are 
not  going  to  be  silent  and  timid.  I  think  you  are  a 
great  people.  I  love  the  English.  I  have  loved  them. 
Geoffrey  will  try  to  see  the  good  in  us.  And  if  we 
have  children  they  will  not  be  ashamed." 

All  embarrassment  had  gone.  Geoffrey  looked  at 
Mary  and  was  content.  He  had  a  ridiculous  notion 
that  Burke  was  going  to  wipe  his  eyes  with  his  napkin. 
Sibyl  raised  her  head  slowly  and  looked  at  Geoffrey, 
and  when  he  smiled  her  eyes  kindled  suddenly  and 
she  smiled  nervously,  tremulously;  a  change  of  mood 
could  not  come  quickly.  Then  Mary  said :  "  Your 
spirit  is  beautiful,  but  Geoffrey  wants  to  fight  against 
Germany." 

Sibyl's  head  was  bowed  again.  "  Even  that,"  she 
said.  Mary  looked  at  her  attentively,  and  then  she 
turned  to  Burke :  "  Can  they  do  it  ?  " 

"  Do  what  ? "  the  poor  fellow  said,  and  then  he 
stammered,  "  I  mean — yes,  it's  difficult,  very  difficult." 

"  You  don't  think  I'd  do  anything  very  dreadful, 
Mr.  Burke  ?  "  said  Sibyl,  trying  to  relieve  him. 

"  I  shouldn't  regard  you  as  a  practical  danger,"  he 
said. 

"  But  to  me  ?  "  said  Geoffrey  boldly.  "  Never  mind 
about  the  country.  What  of  the  danger  to  me?  " 

"  Ah !  "  said  Burke.    "  You  don't  matter  much." 

And  as  he  looked  at  Sibyl  they  realized  he  meant 
it  was  she  that  mattered.  Geoffrey  said,  "  You're  an 
impressionable  Irishman." 

Burke,  under  Sibyl's  shy,  kind  glance,  felt  that  he 
was  that  and  modestly  tried  to  turn  the  subject  with 


LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS  283 

some  platitude  about  the  hopelessness  of  ever  getting 
the  world  straight  again. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  how  capable  everything 
is  of  solution.  Look  at  us  four!  How  different  we 
all  are  and  how  we  can  agree." 

"  And  every  one  wants  everybody  else  to  have  the 
.biggest  peach,"  said  Sibyl. 

"  Well,"  said  Burke,  "  when  I  go  to  dine  with  Lind- 
say he  wants  me  to  have  the  biggest  potato,  but  that 
doesn't  mean  he's  going  to  raise  my  salary." 

"  '  God  mend  all ! '  as  Queen  Katherine  said,"  and 
Geoffrey  looked  benignly  round  the  table. 

"  And  we  trust  Him  at  least  to  look  after  the  chosen 
race,"  said  Mary  with  a  sarcastic  eye  on  Geoffrey  and, 
it  seemed,  a  kindly  one  on  Sibyl. 

"It's  difficult,  though,"  said  Sibyl,  "when  the 
chosen  race  comes  up  against  the  super-race." 

"  Ingrate !  "  cried  Geoffrey.  "  These  wits !  They're 
at  the  mercy  of  their  epigrams."  He  was  delighted 
with  her. 

"  Even  the  angels  didn't  do  much,"  said  Mary, 
"  when  they  revolted  against  God." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Burke.  "  You  need  a  long  spoon  to 
sup  with  the  devil." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Burke !  "  cried  Sibyl,  "  are  you  refer- 
ring to  me  ?  "  Heaven  knows  what  he  had  meant,  but 
they  all  laughed  freely,  and  Mary  said  it  was  time 
for  them — the  ladies — to  be  going.  "  My  nice  supper 
has  hardly  had  a  chance  with  all  this  talk,"  she  said, 
and  Sibyl  confirmed  this  with  a  rueful,  "  Oh,  dear ! " 
and  a  hurried,  self-reproachful  glance  at  the  dishes 


284.  TRUE  LOVE 

within  view.  Burke  assured  Mary  earnestly  that  he, 
at  least,  had  done  justice  to  it  and  she  thanked  him 
laughing.  Sibyl,  with  a  light  affectation  of  greediness, 
rifled  bon-bon  boxes  as  she  and  Mary  withdrew.  At 
the  door  she  turned  to  Burke  and  said :  "  You're  going 
to  talk  things  over  with  him  and  he  won't  tell  me 
everything." 

Geoffrey  said  genially :  "  There's  a  keyhole  for 
spies." 

Left  alone  with  Burke  he  fell  suddenly  serious. 
They  smoked  in  silence  till  Geoffrey  said :  "  The  other 
night  at  the  theater  I  watched  her  and  I  said  to 
myself :  'Are  these  Germans  too  clever  for  us  ? ' 
And  to-night — "  He  stopped  and  gazed  at  his 
friend. 

"  I  think  these  women  are  too  clever  for  us,"  said 
Burke. 

Geoffrey's  mind  took  in  Mary  and  he  nodded.  She 
might  not  have  Sibyl's  wit,  but  you  could  not  think 
of  Mary  as  inferior  and  his  family  pride  was  touched. 
He  returned  to  the  point. 

"  Do  you  advise  me  to  throw  her  over?  " 

"  You  won't." 

"  The  cool,  common  sense  of  it." 

"  You  don't  want  it." 

"  Take  it  that  I  do." 

"  There  are  lots  of  nice  girls." 

"  Fetch  'em  and  put  'em  against  her." 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  not  going  to  be  easy  for  you." 

"  You  old  scoundrel,  if  I  gave  her  up  I  believe  you'd 
propose  to  her  yourself." 


LOVERS  AND  FRIENDS  285 

"  I'm  the  romantic  Irishman.  "Why  did  she  say  I 
wanted  mystery  ?  " 

"  Poor  devil !    I  believe  you're  in  love  with  her." 

"  Rubbish !  I  don't  fall  in  love  with  my  friends' 
sweethearts." 

"  Burke,  you  are  our  friend." 

"  If  you'll  have  it  so." 

When,  presently,  they  went  to  the  drawing-room 
the  two  girls  were  sitting  silent  on  each  side  of  the 
fire,  and  Geoffrey  saw  the  traces  of  tears  in  Mary's 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  XX 
STIRRUP-CUP 

THE  next  afternoon  Geoffrey  was  in  his  room  at  the 
office,  clearing  up  various  matters  before  he  left,  when 
Burke  came  in,  charged,  it  appeared,  with  second 
thoughts.  He  had  found  last  night's  entertainment 
so  agreeable  and  stimulating  that  he  feared  he  had 
not  been  quite  the  candid  friend.  Poor  old  Tim! 
He  considered  that  Sibyl  had  an  extraordinary 
amount  of  "  personal  magnetism,"  and  this,  added  to 
the  geniality  of  the  occasion,  had  shifted  him  a  bit 
from  his  moorings.  And  now  what  he  had  to  say 
amounted  to  this:  that  it  was  a  more  serious  matter 
to  marry  a  German  girl  than  it  had  appeared  last 
night.  "It's  all  very  well,"  said  Burke,  "  to  have 
liberal  sentiments  about  niggers,  but  you  can't  let  your 
daughter  marry  one."  And  then  he  blushed  at  the 
grossness  of  the  analogy  and  admitted  that  this  was 
going  too  far.  "  I'll  tell  you  what,  though,"  he  said ; 
"  if  a  Herald  man  marries  a  German  they'll  say  how 
unsound  we  all  are." 

"  I've  thought  of  it,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  but  I  shan't 
be  a  Herald  man  in  a  week  or  two.  Besides, 
Lindsay  would  be  the  first  to  tell  me  to  disregard 
that." 

286 


STIRRUP-CUP  287 

Burke  shook  his  head,  and  cast  about  for  arguments 
rather  faintly.  His  heart  was  not  in  it,  and  he  was 
but  answering  the  dubious  calls  of  conscience. 

"  Do  you  really  think,  Burke,"  said  Geoffrey  with 
sudden  animation,  "  that  I  ought  to  throw  over  the 
girl?  Would  you  think  better  of  me?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Burke. 

"  Then  what  the  devil  are  you  bothering  about  ?  " 

And  really  it  looked  as  though  Burke's  object  was 
merely  to  make  his  friend  uncomfortable.  Geoffrey 
suggested  this  and  Burke  was  indignant  in  his  denial. 
Presently :  "  What  I  like  about  her,"  he  burst  out, 
"  is  that  she  won't  throw  over  her  own  lot."  The 
true  Burke  was  in  this  generous  appreciation.  He 
had  rid  his  conscience  of  a  burden,  and  felt  the  better 
for  it.  He  would  not  have  Geoffrey  desert  the  charm- 
ing lady,  but  he  must  realize  that  to  stick  to  her  was 
no  light  matter.  "  And  you've  got  plenty  on  hand  as 
it  is,"  he  said.  "  Your  sister,  now — she's  magnificent, 
but  a  bit  staggering.  But  I  mustn't  talk  of  this." 

"  I'd  like  your  impression,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Oh,  well !  You  know  I  had  a  little  talk  with  her 
last  night  when  you  were — well;  I  was  very  much 
interested,  you  know,  and  she  was  extremely  kind 
and  gentle  and  most  respectful  to  me — made  me  feel 
a  person  of  consideration.  I  dare  say  you  know  her 
attitude.  She  thinks  a  deep  humiliation  may  be  good 
for  us,  and  that  it  might  be  God's  plan  for  our  sal- 
vation." 

"  And,  conversely,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  that  the  tri- 
umph of  Germany  would  show  His  anger  with  them  ?  " 


288  TRUE  LOVE 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Burke.  "  What  I  felt  was  that 
you  might  as  well  try  to  argue  with  Jesus  Christ." 

"  She's  not  what  the  orthodox  call  religious,"  said 
Geoffrey.  "  She  invents  God  now  and  then  for  her 
purposes.  She  calls  Him  up." 

Burke  stared  at  him  with  an  inquiring  air  which 
struck  Geoffrey  as  comic.  And  then  Burke  changed 
the  subject  thoroughly  with,  "  By  the  bye,  we're  going 
to  dine  you." 

Geoffrey  objected  that,  in  the  circumstances,  the 
farewell  dinner  was  not  in  the  best  of  taste ;  it  was  apt 
to  imply  too  much  when  the  guest  was  off  to  the  wars. 
He  was  flattered,  however,  and  consented  to  grace  the 
occasion.  Out  of  a  subtle  regard  for  Geoffrey  the 
dinner  was  held,  not  at  the  garish  big  hotel,  but  at  the 
old,  rather  superior,  rather  dowdy  one  associated  with 
the  festivities  of  a  bygone  Manchester.  It  had  its 
character  and  some  pride  of  present  achievement ;  the 
dinner  was  good  at  least.  A  dozen  or  more  men  at- 
tended it,  and  Geoffrey,  for  once  in  his  life,  had  the 
center  of  the  stage.  It  was  a  curious  sensation  to 
be  the  target  for  congratulation,  for  appreciation, 
which,  when  it  came  to  his  turn  to  speak,  he  could 
describe  with  a  good  infusion  of  sincerity  as  ill-de- 
served. But  Arden's  modesty  was  a  tradition  of  the 
office ;  in  part  it  was  a  jocular  tradition. 

He  had  a  childish  desire  to  shatter  this  tradition,  to 
assert  himself,  and  perhaps  he  did  succeed  in  puzzling 
his  friends.  His  health  was  drunk  in  the  approved 
fashion,  and  most  of  the  dozen  were  permitted  to  have 
their  say.  Secretan  was  on  his  amazing  adventure 


STIRRUP-CUP  289 

and  Round  was  in  the  chair.  YeTwith  Lindsay  and 
Secretan  away,  loyalty  to  the  Herald  was  always  im- 
plicit, and  Geoffrey  enjoyed  the  intimacy  of  a  com- 
radeship so  generously  extended  to  him,  so  rarely,  it 
seemed,  available.  He  glowed  with  a  proper  pride 
when  Round  said :  "  There  are  no  intrigues  in  this 
office,"  even  though  it  might  occur  to  him  in  some 
twist  of  humility  that  he  would  never  have  had  the 
kind  of  courage  necessary  for  intrigue.  He  listened 
critically  to  all  that  was  said  about  him,  anxious  to 
detach  from  the  words  of  compliment  and  comrade- 
ship something  material  to  his  self-respect.  There 
was  not  much,  though  a  common  emotion  of  fellow- 
ship glowed  reassuringly ;  it  was  something  to  be  one 
with  the  rest.  Of  course  they  found  things  to  say, 
for  it  is  a  poor  life  that  holds  no  chance  of  friendly 
comment.  They  touched  on  his  connection  with  the 
arts,  with  commerce,  on  his  prodigious  accomplish- 
ments in  miscellaneous  reviewing ;  it  was  recalled  that 
he  had,  on  occasion,  positively  written  the  long  leader 
without  disaster.  Round  had  some  beautifully 
phrased,  non-committal  references  to  his  books  and 
plays,  suitable  for  any  one  from  Homer  downwards, 
and  Geoffrey  wondered  whether,  without  any  shade  of 
resentment,  he  might  presently  suggest  that  these  com- 
pliments were  the  pure  matter  of  goodwill,  that  Round 
had  never  read  a  line  of  him.  Attar  spoke  with  more 
knowledge,  but  it  remained  for  Poison,  the  new,  shy 
sub-editor,  whose  inclusion  in  the  company  had  only 
been  determined  by  Geoffrey's  expressed  desire,  to 
speak  the  distinctive  word.  It  was  distinct  rather  than 


290  TRUE  LOVE 

distinguished,  it  had  the  crudeness  of  young  enthusi- 
asm, it  was  out  of  gear  with  the  rest.  It  made  Geof- 
frey feel  queerly  grateful  to  him,  queerly  apologetic 
to  the  others. 

Then  came  Geoffrey's  turn,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
the  wish  that  Lindsay  could  be  there  to  listen  to  his 
explanations.  They  included  a  defense  of  drudgery, 
a  defense  of  skepticism.  He  defined  his  position  with 
some  seriousness,  and  the  company  regarded  him 
rather  blankly;  this  was  hardly  in  the  spirit  of  a 
genial  occasion,  but  he  did  gain  their  interest.  He 
wanted  to  say  to  Lindsay  that  you  can  be  a  faithful 
servant  even  with  the  core  of  your  life  outside  the 
service;  at  large,  he  wanted  to  say — and  in  some 
measure  did  say — that  self-mistrust  is  a  form  of 
skepticism  and  that  skepticism  at  its  best  gives  the 
greatest  measure  of  truth  of  which  this  world  is 
capable.  He  pursued  the  idea  fancifully.  We  can't 
all  be  stimulated  to  do  the  work  of  the  world  by  the 
illusions  of  egoism,  by  the  innate  or  pseudo-logical 
convictions.  He  rode  his  hobby  to  comic  dissolution, 
he  represented  himself  as  a  martyr  to  truth.  On  his 
plays  and  novels  he  touched  very  highly  in  the 
"  prophet  without  honor "  vein,  but  with  a  slight 
hauteur,  perhaps  a  little  arrogance,  declining,  it 
seemed,  the  position  of  an  amiable  nonentity  who 
amused  himself  with  amateur  irrelevancies.  And  then 
it  did  seem  to  him  that  his  apologia  was  getting  a  little 
uncomfortable,  his  audience  a  little  chilly,  and  he 
switched  off  to  friendliness  and  jollity.  They  all  re- 
sponded to  that,  and,  after  all,  he  made  a  success  of 


STIRRUP-CUP  291 

his  speech.  Attar,  seated  on  his^-right,  congratulated 
him  upon  it,  and  particularly  on  his  extrication  from 
the  serious  vein.  "  As  to  that  notion  of  yours  about 
having  a  life  of  one's  own  away  from  the  Herald," 
he  said,  "  I  wish  Lindsay  had  been  here.  We're  all 
in  the  same  position.  But,  mind  you,  it's  a  condition 
of  loyalty  that  you're  not  absolutely  attached;  loyalty 
implies  a  soul  of  your  own." 

Geoffrey  long  remembered  incidents  of  that  dinner, 
he  remembered  dishes  and  the  effect  of  wine  on  his 
brain  if  not  on  his  palate.  He  was  older  than  some 
of  the  men  and  felt  older  than  most;  he  craved  the 
assurance  that  these  clear,  competent  young  men  did 
not  regard  him  as  a  variety  of  the  solemn  ass,  and 
their  plaudits  were  welcome  to  him.  Round  domi- 
nated the  occasion,  and  Geoffrey  recalled  Attar's  word 
of  him,  that  he  was  too  lucid  for  epigram.  His  writ- 
ing about  the  war  was  already  making  a  reputation. 
"  If  there  is  to  be  calamity,"  he  had  said,  "  let's  define 
it."  He  did  not  seek  calamity  half-way,  but  he  was 
far  from  the  alternations  of  panic  and  fatuous  opti- 
mism that  marked  so  much  of  the  current  comment. 
"  Depressing,"  the  casual  readers  called  him,  and  more 
and  more  of  them  returned  to  him  for  the  solidities  of 
reassurance.  Round,  like  any  other  patriotic  Eng- 
lishman, deplored  the  war,  and  yet  it  could  not  make 
him  miserable.  War  was  his  study,  to  move  calmly 
among  the  forces  of  death  and  destruction  became  his 
life.  He  never  made  any  attempt  to  touch  the  ma- 
chinery ;  glimpses  of  veritable  trenches,  concussions 
of  big  guns,  humanity  on  the  march,  were  irrelevant 


292  TRUE  LOVE 

to  his  purpose.  He  did  not  desire  to  buttonhole  gen- 
erals nor  to  be  made  free  of  the  higher  gossip.  His 
intellect  reduced  all  to  its  proportionate  value ;  he  was 
humane,  but  he  was  not  diverted  by  humanity;  he 
was  a  politician,  but  politics  had  no  more  than  their 
place.  Now  he  took  his  prominent  part  in  all  the 
genial  exchanges  of  wit,  while  he  and  Geoffrey  at- 
tempted a  definition  of  the  relations  of  politics  and 
morals.  Round  had  cited  the  Dreyfus  case  as  the 
awful  example  of  politics  forced  to  the  extreme,  and 
Geoffrey  found  another  in  the  Appin  murder.  "  More 
and  more,"  said  Round,  "  I  see  the  advantages  of  a 
simple  righteousness."  He  reflected  on  Geoffrey's 
assertion  that  Christianity  now  had  its  great  chance 
and  was  losing  it.  "  You  can't  have  the  pure,  primi- 
tive article,  of  course,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  That  would 
forbid  our  going  to  war  at  all.  But  isn't  it  possible  to 
have  a  compromise  ?  "  The  clerical  surrender  to  all 
the  basenesses  of  hate  and  revenge  was  one  of  Geof- 
frey's obsessions.  Round  agreed  that  the  spy  panic 
was  all  nonsense,  and  the  persecution  of  innocent 
Germans  a  sort  of  blood  lust.  It  only  required  a  little 
intelligence  to  find  the  few  real  professional  spies  and 
shoot  'em.  Attar,  joining  in,  suggested  the  scene  at 
the  German  Intelligence  Department  on  the  arrival  of 
the  post.  Thousands  of  reports  from  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland,  the  colonies,  the  neutrals,  the  armies,  the 
navies,  the  railway-carriages,  and  the  watering-places. 
Gossip  and  extracts  from  Whittaker's  Almanac.  Des- 
pair of  the  Department  attempting  to  cope  with  all, 
and  months  behind  already.  Discovery  of  serious  dis- 


STIRRUP-CUP  293 

crepancies  between  conversations^  overheard  on  the 
Lancashire  and  Yorkshire,  and  on  the  London  and 
North-Western  Railways.  German  thoroughness  at 
fault,  but  coping  bravely  with  the  situation.  Enor- 
mous growth  of  the  Department.  Recognition  that 
choice  must  be  made  between  great  reduction  in 
sources  of  information  or  abandonment  of  connection 
with  War  Department.  German  thoroughness  pre- 
vails, and  Intelligence  Department  becomes  purely  his- 
torical. Relief  of  military  chiefs.  Great  struggle  be- 
tween Department  and  Army  for  men.  Triumph  of 
German  historical  spirit.  End  of  war. 

So  Attar,  with  some  assistance  from  the  others, 
while  Brecher  enlarged  on  the  connection  between  the 
army  and  the  public  schools.  Brecher,  the  Zionist, 
who  looked  forward  to  growing  oranges  at  Jaffa,  when 
this  wretched  war  was  over — he  was  more  likely  to  be 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  of  the  Jew  Republic — 
had  a  reasoned  scorn  for  the  public  schools  and  his 
concession  of  small  virtues  to  them  was  particularly 
scornful.  Tradition,  discipline,  gallantry,  of  course, 
and  such  things  are  good  when  dominated  by  brain. 
If  not,  tradition  is  merely  adherence  to  the  ramshackle, 
discipline  is  slavery,  and  gallantry  idiotic.  He  quoted 
the  instance  of  the  five  hundred  young  Frenchmen 
from  the  military  school  who  swore  an  oath  together 
— to  do  what?  To  serve  their  country  to  the  utmost 
of  their  power?  No.  To  engage  in  battle  wearing 
white  gloves  so  as  to  provide  a  good  cock-shy  for  the 
enemy.  What  devotion !  What  gallantry !  The  senti- 
mentalists were  thrilled,  but  imagine  Brecher's  fury 


294  TRUE  LOVE 

of  contempt!  "And  your  Dr.  Arnold,"  he  cried, — 
"  What's  this  tradition  that  he  set  up  ?  To  teach  men 
how  to  die.  What  the  devil's  the  good  of  that  ?  You 
want  to  live,  not  to  die.  Teach  men  how  to  live.  Face 
death,  of  course,  but  don't  play  tricks  with  the  infernal 
old  machine.  Your  nice  public-school  boy  is  no  good 
when  he  comes  up  against  the  brainy  blackguard." 

"  Let's  have  brainy  chivalry,  then,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  I  want  people  to  be  decent,"  said  Brecher  mod- 
erately. 

Geoffrey  looked  round  the  table  and  it  occurred  to 
him  that  half  the  men  were  young  enough  to  fight. 
He  had  thought  of  them  as  gallant  young  men,  but 
these  had  not  rushed  to  the  great  adventure  like  Secre- 
tan  and  the  others.  Those  public-school  boys  whose 
native  hue  had  not  been  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast 
of  thought,  would  go  to  it  eagerly  or  resignedly  when 
their  time  came ;  these  had  their  preoccupations,  their 
hesitations,  their  mistrust  of  the  first  rush.  Geoffrey 
did  not  know  it,  but  his  own  action  was  working  on 
the  feelings  and  in  the  brains  of  several  of  these  men. 
They  had  regarded  Secretan's  enlistment  as  a  brilliant 
freak,  but  Arden's  had  the  significance  of  the  world 
movement.  They  had  their  work  already ;  they  would 
have  to  be  torn  up  by  the  roots ;  not  very  deep,  per- 
haps, but  still  roots.  Their  enthusiasms  had  a  reason- 
able basis.  Several  of  them  were  capable  of  swim- 
ming against  the  stream ;  all  of  taking  a  direction. 

In  the  meantime  they  were  lads  ready  for  a  lark, 
and  conscious,  too,  that  it  was  "  up  to  them  "  to  justify 
the  Herald  as  a  school  of  the  lighter  humanities. 


STIRRUP-CUP  295 

Geoffrey  was  not  altogether  averse  from  such  things, 
but  though  he  might  grow  familiar  in  one  relation  with 
his  companions  he  would  remain  shy  of  another.  So 
he  did  not  take  part  in  the  orgy  of  high  spirits  that 
followed  the  dinner,  and  next  day  he  heard  the  details 
of  it  rather  wistfully.  They  were  not  very  alarming, 
and  perhaps  the  most  picturesque  incident  was  Burke's 
progress  down  Portland  Street  on  the  roof  of  the  four- 
wheeler.  Burke  had  been  a  little  subdued  during  the 
formal  progress  of  the  dinner,  but  in  the  later  pro- 
ceedings he  was  said  to  have  "  taken  hold,"  finding 
opportunity  for  an  expression  of  nationality.  Attar 
justified  his  own  participation  in  the  revels  by  the  need 
for  a  judicious  friend  of  strong  character  to  head 
Burke  away  from  the  police  court.  And  yet  it  was 
Burke  to  whom  Geoffrey  turned  when  he  wanted  the 
sane  proportion  of  things.  A  queer  world. 

Geoffrey  walked  home  through  the  quiet  streets,  and 
this  time  he  thought  indulgently  of  Mary  sitting  up 
for  him  in  her  mistaken  loyalty.  She  was  there,  no 
doubt,  waiting  to  hear  all  about  it,  and  whether  he 
expanded  or  contracted  depended  on  the  chances  of 
his  mood.  There  was  so  much  in  the  evening  that  she 
would  not  appreciate;  Mary,  boggling  over  the  mi- 
nutiae of  righteousness,  was  scared  by  the  large,  loose 
life  of  men  of  the  world.  When  they  had  been  dead 
for  centuries  it  didn't  matter.  Perhaps  to  some  of 
the  Marys  of  their  time,  Oliver  Cromwell  and  Martin 
Luther  had  been  coarse,  reprehensible  creatures,  but 
now  the  dross  was  separable  from  the  gold.  She  had 
something  of  the  historical  sense,  and  didn't  trouble 


296  TRUE  LOVE 

about  faded  gossip.  Ready  as  she  was  to  make  heroes 
of  the  leader  writers  who  would  espouse  lost  or  doubt- 
ful causes,  Geoffrey  had  learnt  caution  in  describing 
their  sayings  and  doings. 

To-night  he  was  conscious  of  the  fumes  of  wine  in 
his  brain,  when  he  found  her  pathetically  warming  a 
bowl  of  bread  and  milk  for  him.  Bread  and  milk! 
It  represented  the  plunge  into  domesticity,  and,  rather 
surprisingly,  he  presently  found  himself  eating  with 
fair  appetite.  He  was  good-natured,  and  some  per- 
sistence of  his  elation  carried  him  through  a  pretty 
lively  account  of  the  evening's  doings.  And  Mary,  it 
appeared  from  the  books  strewn  about,  had  been  read- 
ing Rossetti  and  the  Carolinian  poets,  for  whom  she 
had  a  curious  affection.  Seeing  him  glance  at  the 
books,  she  mentioned  that  Milly  Warde  had  come  in. 
This  meant  that  Mary  had  not  got  on  very  far  with 
her  poets,  and  Geoffrey  was  tempted  freakishly  to  ask 
whether  Milly  had  been  reading  Rossetti.  Mary  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in  a  little  burst  of  half- 
indignant  defense  of  her  friend,  she  said :  "  Milly  is 
not  exotic." 

Geoffrey  was  driven  to  reflect  on  the  inconsistencies 
of  the  sincere.  Mary  read  Rossetti,  but  it  was  a  sort 
of  virtue  for  Milly  not  to  read  him;  it  did  not  con- 
sort with  her  particular  genius,  perhaps.  And  Geof- 
frey felt  that  there  was  another  implication.  Sibyl 
was  exotic.  In  the  early  days  of  their  acquaintance, 
Mary  had  used  the  word  carelessly  or  tentatively, 
about  her,  and  Geoffrey  had  not  altogether  disliked 
it.  Now  he  broke  through  the  little  play  of  senti- 


STIRRUP-CUP  297 

ments  between  him  and  Mary  by^saying :  "  There  is 
no  harm  in  being  exotic  when  you  are  as  true  as  steel." 
And  Mary  looked  at  him  with  sullen  eyes,  and  then, 
conquered  herself  amazingly.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I 
believe  Sibyl  is  that."  They  trembled  on  the  brink  of 
some  outward  expression  of  emotion,  of  sympathy, 
and  perhaps  the  essential  was  accomplished.  It  was 
queer  how  she  seemed  to  hanker  after  Milly,  cham- 
pioning her  because  of  her  defects,  as  you  would  de- 
fend and  be  kind  to  the  crippled  or  infirm.  If  he  had 
brought  home  as  a  wife  some  peasant  lass,  or  even 
some  preposterous  person  from  the  streets,  Mary 
would  have  been  the  devoted  friend.  Sibyl,  as  the 
saying  is,  intrigued  her.  She  blew  hot  and  cold.  She 
would  placate  him  by  quoting  something  from  her 
Carolinians  that  applied  to  Sibyl,  and  he  liked  it, 
though  he  might  have  liked  better  something  from  the 
great,  thundering  poets. 

Earlier  in  the  evening,  Mary  and  Milly  had  talked 
about  Sibyl.  Milly  had  been  the  hearty,  generous  one, 
and  Mary  seemed  always  to  be  making  subtle  reserva- 
tions. In  her  pitiful  heart  she  knew  that  this  good, 
staunch  girl  was  suffering  the  loss  of  a  possible,  an 
imagined,  a  desired  lover.  Who  could  help  loving 
Geoffrey?  She  was  conscious  of  a  comic  reduction  to 
absurdity  in  the  feeling  that  the  loss  of  Geoffrey  was 
a  serious  matter  to  the  maidenhood  of  Britain.  She 
knew  that  she  must  fight  against  the  idea  that  every- 
body was  perpetually  losing  something,  just  as  she 
must  refrain  from  dwelling  on  the  slaughter  in  the 
war.  On  a  summer  evening  she  had  been  struck  to 


298  TRUE  LOVE 

sadness  by  realizing  the  mortality  of  the  midges.  She 
had  tried  to  believe  in  an  immortality  for  midges,  in 
the  persistence  of  all  forms  of  consciousness.  And 
Geoffrey  remembered  the  occasion,  long  ago,  when 
kind  parents  had  exchanged  startled  glances  at  the 
passion  of  the  girl  who  refused  an  immortality  that 
did  not  embrace  dogs,  mice,  or  even  black  beetles, 
though  she  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  the  perpetuation 
of  these.  She  had  hardly  changed,  for  her  inveterate 
truthfulness  perceived  the  logical  difficulty  in  limiting 
immortality.  She  could  be  sarcastic  at  that  fatuous- 
ness of  mankind  in  conceiving  itself  as  the  chosen 
race.  Oh,  you  could  come  up  against  something  very 
sharp  in  Mary! 

Milly  pursued  her  with  formulas  of  a  moderate  in- 
telligence, but  she  had  to  fall  back  sometimes  on  the 
fond  platitude  that  "  Mary  was  a  queer  girl."  Milly 
felt  a  great  deal  on  the  subject  of  Mary  and  realized 
her  own  inarticulateness.  Yet  she  was  useful  in  giv- 
ing the  plain  sense  of  the  occasion  to  her  friend,  and 
on  this  particular  evening  she  had  been  round  with 
her.  It  appeared  that  Sibyl  was  to  be  away  playing 
Juliet,  and  with  some  beating  about  the  bush  it  was 
made  manifest  that,  in  the  circumstances — Geoffrey 
being  the  obvious  circumstance — a  flesh  and  blood 
Romeo  was  intolerable.  Mary  would  not  accept  the 
idea  of  a  bride  for  Geoffrey  being  kissed  by  other  men, 
and  actresses,  unhappily,  may  be  kissed  a  good  deal 
even  in  the  classical  parts.  It  was  not  their  fault,  of 
course,  but  their  misfortune.  There  was  no  way 
round  if  plays  were  to  be  acted,  and  Mary  worried 


STIRRUP-CUP  299 

herself  between  the  impossibility  ^©f  forbidding  them 
— she  was  not  a  mere  Puritan — and  the  horror  of  the 
maiden  sacrifice  involved  in  being  kissed.  But  Milly 
made  short  work  of  her  and,  indeed,  she  was  divided 
against  herself.  "  Nonsense,"  cried  Milly.  "  It  isn't 
real  kissing,"  and  she  compared  Mary  to  the  Miss 
Poles  with  their  fine  shades  and  nice  feelings.  Cer- 
tainly Meredith  would  be  on  the  side  of  art  and  Sibyl, 
and  in  the  discussion,  which  was  hardly  an  argument, 
Mary  was  left  with  nothing  but  a  feeling  and  that, 
she  felt,  was  an  ungenerous  one.  Milly  was  not  one 
to  lose  an  advantage  by  niceties  of  consideration,  and 
she  asked  Mary  whether  she  looked  forward  to  loss  of 
delicacy,  to  blunted  feelings,  when  she  began  to  nurse. 
Conscious  that  this  was  not  a  perfect  analogy,  Mary 
did  not  continue  the  subject.  She  fell  back  upon  do- 
mestic policies,  and,  really,  there  was  a  lot  to  con- 
sider now ;  the  house  was  to  be  shut  up,  the  furniture 
stored,  and  life  itself  to  find  new  channels. 

She  was  immersed  in  these  distracting  preparations 
when  Sibyl  called  to  say  good-by  before  setting  off  on 
her  tour.  Geoffrey,  on  the  point  of  beginning  his 
training,  was  out  of  the  way,  and  Sibyl,  indeed,  had 
chosen  to  have  it  so.  With  the  three  of  them  together 
phe  had  a  ridiculous  consciousness  of  the  struggle  for 
Geoffrey;  the  struggle  was  attenuated  to  little  jeal- 
ousies, faint  resentments.  Indeed,  the  signs  of  it 
were  chiefly  Mary's  reactions — the  evident  impulses 
of  friendliness  from  which  Sibyl,  in  supersensitive 
mood,  would  infer  the  secret  thoughts  that  were  not 
so  friendly.  Sibyl  thought  she  had  never  met  any  one 


300  TRUE  LOVE 

so  difficult  to  approach  as  Mary.  Now  and  then,  when 
she  had  time  to  think,  she  found  it  very  interesting, 
but  she  had  her  pride  and  dignity;  she  was  ready  to 
respond  to  kindnesses  that  were  sisterly,  but  she  would 
not  be  pitied  for  being  a  German.  And  sometimes  she 
missed  the  point  that  Mary,  in  the  breadth  of  her 
humanity,  was  German  too.  Occasionally,  indeed,  it 
had  not  been  humanity  but  a  wilfulness  of  opposition 
which  had  made  her  extol  the  German  and  even  the 
Prussian  virtues,  as  the  disconcerted  Geoffrey  had  rea- 
lized. It  was  an  astounding  fact  that  Mary  had  read 
Carlyle's  Frederick  the  Great,  and  was  now  threaten- 
ing to  read  it  again. 

Sibyl,  sitting  politely  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  and 
looking  very  elegant,  did  not  appear  to  have  much  in 
common  with  the  great  Frederick,  nor  could  she  be 
plausibly  ranked  with  the  desolate  and  oppressed. 
The  two  women  eyed  one  another,  talking  trivialities, 
and  each  was  conscious  of  the  impalpable  barrier. 
There  was  no  bridge  to  cross  it,  and  Sibyl  felt  that 
the  only  way  was  a  flying  leap.  If  need  be  she  must 
ravage  Mary's  feelings ;  she  must  not  pretend  that  all 
was  colorless  between  her  and  Geoffrey.  And  so  she 
burst  out :  "  Oh,  Mary !  Isn't  it  a  beautiful  idea  of 
ours — Geoffrey's  and  mine  ?  " 

And  Mary,  detesting  herself  for  the  coldness  of  her 
voice,  said,  "  What  idea  ?  " 

Sibyl  tried  again.  Gallantly  she  said :  "  You've  got 
to  be  nice  to  us  about  it.  You  know  what  a  child  is 
with  an  idea.  It's  cruel  to  be  scornful  of  a  child's 
idea.  I  think  I've  infected  Geoffrey  with  it.  If  I 


STIRRUP-CUP  301 

thought  he  was  just  pretending  andxlidn't  see  anything 
in  it  I  should  be  miserable.  It  would  be — it  would  be 
disastrous.  No,  it  is  not  childish,  even  if  I  am  like  a 
child.  It's  very,  very  serious.  It's  as  serious  as  our 
love  for  one  another."  She  stood  up  as  if  to  go,  as 
if  nothing  more  could  be  said  on  her  side.  Mary  felt 
the  relief  of  being  overcome;  she  said  gently:  "Tell 
me  about  it  again." 

Sibyl  sat  down.  "  I  feel  the  death  of  that  gallant 
old  man  in  France,"  she  said. 

"Who? "said  Mary. 

"  Lord  Roberts  is  dead.  He  was  the  enemy  of  Ger- 
many, of  course,  and  the  Liberals  used  to  think  him 
foolish  when  he  warned  you  against  us.  But  things 
weren't  so  bitter  then,  and  he  was  single-minded  and 
brave  and  wanted  to  help  his  country.  I  like  people 
to  die  in  the  fullness  of  their  power.  He  was  old 
and  in  a  strange  country,  and  he  must  have  felt  use- 
less. The  greatest  things  in  the  world  were  happen- 
ing and  he  was  failing  and  dying.  And  yet  it  was 
good  for  him  to  die  among  it  all.  It  was  a  sort  of 
glory.  He  has  the  soldier's  face." 

Mary  was  bewildered.  "  I  don't  understand,"  she 
said.  "  Of  course,  it's  very  nice  of  you — very  good  of 
you  to  talk  of  Lord  Roberts  like  this.  Oh,  what  rub- 
bish! No.  Why  shouldn't  you?  But — is  this  part  of 
the  idea?" 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Sibyl.  "I'm  afraid  it's  rather 
like  rehearsing  for  Geoffrey.  I  shall  say  something 
like  that  when  I  see  him  again.  I  suppose  we  actor 
people  get  into  the  way  of  saying  things  again  and 


302  TRUE  LOVE 

again."  Then  she  added :  "  And  trying  to  make  them 
better." 

She  had  been  sincere,  but  this  little  bit  of  illustra- 
tion from  her  art  struck  coldly  on  Mary,  who  had 
told  herself  before  that  she  must  not  be  on  the  look- 
out for  the  histrionic  in  Sibyl.  However,  Mary  said 
mildly  enough :  "  Why  must  you  talk  about  Lord 
Roberts  to  Geoffrey?" 

"  The  idea  is,"  said  Sibyl,  "  that  he  is  English  and  I 
German,  and  yet  that  I  am  to  enter  into  all  the  noble 
and  beautiful  things  on  his  side,  and  he  into  those  on 
mine.  The  stupid  people  here  would  say  that  he  will 
find  nothing.  Well,  I  must  risk  that.  Oh,  Mary !  It 
is  rather  funny  to  hear  him  praising  the  German 
method  and  competence.  He's  so  careful  and  punc- 
tilious. I'm  afraid  somethimes  that  the  idea  will  fizzle 
out  in  a  joke.  But  it  mustn't.  It  shan't.  And  we've 
so  much  in  common.  German  boys,  English  boys, 
going  to  the  slaughter.  Geoffrey's  a  man  and  that's 
different.  Am  I  unnatural  in  feeling  that  it  isn't  so 
bad  for  him  to  go?  That's  when  I  get  out  of  myself. 
We  must  get 'out  of  ourselves  or  it  will  be  too  terrible. 
Face  things  and  then  put  them  aside.  In  a  year  from 
now  Geoffrey  may  be  killed.  In  one  year  or  in  fifty 
years.  It's  awful,  but  it's  not  impossible.  What  a 
lot  we  can  stand!  It's  no  use  pretending  we  can't 
stand  things  when  we  can.  A  few  discomforts  and 
slights — even  persecutions — don't  seem  much  when 
there's  death  about.  Yes,  he  gives  the  Germans  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  so  politely,  and  I  pay  handsome 
compliments  to  the  English  people.  We're  only  at  the 


STIRRUP-CUP  303 

fringe  of  things.  The  idea  has  got  to  be  tested  yet. 
We're  rather  shy  of  the  German  atrocities.  Oh!  I 
can't  talk  about  that." 

"  Behind  it  all,"  said  Mary,  "  there's  your  beautiful 
affection  for  one  another." 

"  How  nice  you  can  be !  How  generous  you  can 
be !  "  cried  Sibyl.  "  I  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  I 
was  making  any  impression  on  you." 

"Impression  on  me?"  said  Mary  frowning.  She 
detected  the  cloven  foot. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Sibyl.  "  I  say  the  wrong  things. 
You're  so  dreadfully  sensitive.  Well,  but  why 
shouldn't  I  wish  to  impress  you,  to  move  you?  Do  you 
think  I  use  you  just  like  an  audience?  I  don't,  but 
remember  that  audiences  are  very  serious  things  to 
me.  They  are  not  contemptible.  But,  Mary,  you  did 
say  the  right  thing.  Affection.  That's  it.  We  may 
have  very  little  time.  A  flare  of  passion  is  not  enough. 
We  want  to  be  wise  and  safe  and  permanent.  And  it 
may  be  months,  not  years.  We  want  the  best,  the 
finest.  If  Geoffrey  is  to  die  he  shall  have  that  first. 
I  am  not  unworthy  of  him,  Mary.  Am  I  taking  him 
from  you?  It  has  to  be.  I've  thought  of  that.  If  it 
were  only  I  to  be  considered — but  you  can  be — you 
are  infinitely  generous.  It  is  easy  to  be  generous  to 
him.  I  ask  you  humbly — humbly,  Mary — to  be  kind 
to  me.  He  would  like  it.  I'm  not  acting." 

Mary  could  not  speak  but  she  held  out  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TRAINING 

FROM  a  camp  in  the  Yorkshire  dales  Geoffrey  wrote  to 

Sibyl:— 

t 

"I  feel  like  a  timid  swimmer  who  has  taken  the 
plunge  and  come  up  gasping,  but  relieved  and  even 
exhilarated.  I'm  in  for  it;  I've  changed  my  life  and 
so  far  changed  myself  that  little  familiarities  of  body 
and  soul  take  on  a  strange  aspect.  We're  in  huts  and 
a  barn  or  two— in  the  spring  I  think  there  will  be 
hundreds  of  tents — and  my  old  self  is  still  uncomfort- 
able, but  a  new  self  is  growing  over  it  and  that  gets 
on  pretty  well.  The  military  life  is  wildly  exciting 
and  it's  an  awful  bore.  You  get  bored  to  the  stage  of 
positive  wretchedness.  Will  you  believe  that  I  turn 
on  the  vision  of  you  sometimes  because  I  can't  stand 
things  as  they  are  any  longer  ?  This  is  to  acknowledge 
that  I  don't  think  of  you  all  the  time?  Well,  do  you 
know,  I  use  you  with  a  certain  economy.  I  don't  think 
of  you  all  the  time.  We're  going  to  be  honest  lovers, 
aren't  we,  and  I'll  acknowledge  that  sometimes  I  for- 
get all  about  you.  Why !  we  forget  all  about  the  war. 
We  haven't  time  for  it  with  all  these  really  important 
things  pressing  upon  us.  I'm  intensely  conscious  of 
my  body,  of  my  poor  old  limbs  and  my  digestion;  a 

304 


TRAINING  305 

sore  toe  is  very  much  more  to  "the  point  than  the 
question  of  a  Russian  advance  or  retreat.  As  to  the 
cause — the  sacred  cause — one  never  thinks  of  it  un- 
less with  a  conscious  effort.  One  made  a  choice  and 
must  stick  to  it.  Perhaps  it  was  a  frigid  moral  choice 
or  perhaps  a  generous  enthusiasm — now  we're  back 
on  ourselves.  I  had  a  touch  of  toothache  the  other 
day — it's  nothing,  it's  gone — and  the  only  thing  in 
the  world  worth  considering  was  the  absence  of  tooth- 
ache. My  idea  of  happiness  was  to  be  a  sort  of 
Prisoner  of  Chillon — just  to  exist  not  having  tooth- 
ache in  as  much  dark  and  damp  as  you  please.  Ah! 
The  body !  The  concern  with  the  body !  Write  me 
some  jolly,  witty  letters.  I  must  have  an  intellectual 
life.  Save  me  from  mental  torpor.  My  dearest,  I'm 
mad  for  love  of  you.  It's  cruel  to  keep  us  apart.  Did 
I  say  that  I  forgot  you  sometimes  ?  What  nonsense ! 
Or  I  forget  you  as  one  forgets  the  sky  and  the  sun, 
breath  and  life.  I  forget  you  as  I  forget  myself. 

"  We're  in  a  sort  of  park,  and  there's  a  big  house 
near  where  a  Lord  Somebody  lives,  a  fine-looking  old 
boy  who  beams  on  us  when  he  meets  us  in  his  car, 
and  reeks  of  a  goodish  brand  of  patriotism.  He's 
rather  decrepit,  and  has  sons  in  the  army.  I  think 
he  looks  on  us  as  being  garnished  for  the  sacrifice, 
fattened  for  the  butcher.  When  the  first  drafts  came 
along  he  made  us  a  speech  that  was  curiously,  finely 
emotional.  Emotional  and  yet  austere.  He  welcomed 
us  as  his  guests  and  gave  us  to  understand  that  it  was 
our  privilege  to  die  for  our  country.  I  think  it  hadn't 
struck  us  all  in  that  light.  We  were  thinking  of  a 


306  TRUE  LOVE 

pleasant  outing  with  some  excitement  of  bursting 
shells  and  a  triumphant  progress  to  Berlin.  I  fancy 
he  was  told  to  draw  it  a  little  milder  next  time.  He's 
a  popular  figure,  and  the  officers  go  to  lunch  and  dine 
with  him  sometimes.  They  come  back  smoking  large 
cigars  and  looking  very  confident  about  the  military 
position.  It's  queer  now  to  think  of  a  swetf  dinner- 
table  and  coffee  and  liqueurs  and  joining  the  ladies  in 
the  drawing-room.  The  ladies  especially.  I  hanker 
after  exquisite  womankind.  You,  of  course,  but  as 
you're  not  about,  I  don't  know  but  what  I  should 
like  a  little  to  be  going  on  with.  We  are  to  be  frank, 
aren't  we?  Frank,  frank  (but  not  too  frank). 

"  I  resume  to  say  that  I'm  lance-corporal.  Hooray ! 
The  first  step.  I  see  that  I  shall  get  on.  I  can't  help 
getting  on.  I'm  an  intelligent  man  and  among  rather 
a  plain  lot.  I'm  afraid  I  must  include  the  officers. 
When  I  get  back  to  the  old  life  I  shall  begin  to  salute, 
Lindsay  and  Round  and  the  rest.  They're  miles  ahead 
of  all  these  people.  Yes,  I  shall  prostrate  myself  and 
bump  my  forehead  on  the  ground.  I  don't  say  that 
the  officers  are  all  duffers.  I  don't  get  at  the  working 
of  their  minds.  Very  nice  fellows  some  of  them  are, 
and  nice  little  bits  of  humanity  peep  out.  They're 
ashamed  of  this  because  it's  not  soldierly.  They're 
pretending  to  be  soldiers  and  overdo  it.  They  imitate 
the  two  or  three  old  soldiers  that  are  here.  It's  like 
imitating  Irving  or  George  Alexander.  But  the  whole 
machine  is  rather  absurd.  It  seems  to  be  a  machine 
for  machinery's  sake ;  I  suppose  it's  really  for  making 


TRAINING  307 

us  all  into  machines  that  will  advance  and  retire  and 
let  off  guns,  and  occasionally  topple  over  into  the 
ditch. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  think  much  of  my  being  a  lance- 
corporal,  but  let  me  tell  you  that  it  means  authority. 
I've  more  authority — or  a  different  sort — than  railway 
directors  and  mill  managers.  I  can  grind  down  my 
fellow  men  and  they  can't  put  on  their  coats  and  go 
home.  I  can  '  manage  them  till  they  cry ' — as  the  little 
girl  said  when  her  mother  left  her  in  charge  of  the 
babies.  The  first  step  is  the  great  step.  You  begin 
to  see  what  a  terrific  instrument  this  army  is.  And 
one  has  to  be  a  bit  sharp.  I  mean  to  keep  humane, 
but  I'm  going  to  be  d — d  sharp,  I  can  tell  you.  Ought 
we  to  manage  them  by  love?  I  feel  Mary  at  my 
elbow.  Privates  don't  love  N.C.O's.  I  think  they  do 
sometimes  make  beneficent  figures  of  officers.  With 
despair  I  realize  that  I  can't  reform  the  British  army. 
I  can't  spiritualize  it,  Mary.  Yes,  I'm  conscious  of 
Mary.  She  baffles  me;  we're  more  than  ever  on  dif- 
ferent planes.  I  don't  say  she's  wrong.  The  young 
man  with  great  possessions  had  a  simple  problem ;  it's 
the  young  man  with  great  prepossessions  that's  in  a 
fix.  (Rather  witty!  What?) 

"  I  told  you  we  live  in  huts.  It's  a  squash,  and  here 
I  am  in  positive  contact  with  dozens,  hundreds,  thou- 
sands (it  seems)  of  my  fellow  men.  I  sleep  with 
them,  I  feed  with  them,  and  I  know  the  smell  of  the 
battalion  as  a  dog  knows  that  of  his  master.  I  don't 
like  it,  but  I  get  accustomed  to  it.  I  feel  that  I'm 
passing  through  it,  and  that  there's  something  in  the 


308  TRUE  LOVE 

idea  of  purgatory,  though  I  used  to  think  of  that  as 
fiercer  and  cleaner.  One  could  write  of  it  all  like  a 
'realistic '  novelist,  but  I  won't.  I  do  feel  sometimes 
that  I'm  in,  a  morass,  and  I  try  to  fix  my  eyes  or  my 
mind  on  a  star.  These  things  are  fleabites.  Yes,  but 
you  may  wake  o'  nights  with  fleabites,  hating  man- 
kind. There's  snobbery  in  matters  of  cleanliness,  and 
I  don't  want  to  be  too  clean.  Queer  stuff  this,  for  a 
love  letter?  But  we're  serious  people,  aren't  we,  and 
we're  in  a  real  world?  I've  a  feeling  that  I'm  getting 
down  to  the  rock  and  that  I  can  do  it.  That's  the 
discovery.  I  can  do  it.  My  spirits  rise  at  that.  I 
wonder,  sometimes,  whether  I  could  have  done  it 
without  you.  I  suppose  I  could  have  held  on  dog- 
gedly, but  you  are  the  star  that  is  always  shining  over 
the  morass,  and  when  there's  a  star  the  morass  is  as 
good  as  anything  else.  And  it  seems  so  irrelevant  that 
I'm  preparing  to  fight  Germans  and  you're  a  German 
girl.  (I  don't  quite  admit  it.)  That's  far  away.  We 
haven't  come  to  that.  The  great  Idea,  your  magnifi- 
cent Idea  transcends  everything.  It  is  a  great  idea, 
Sibyl  (Gretchen,  or  whatever  your  name  is.  I  shall 
always  think  of  you  as  Sibyl). 

"What  was  I  saying?  Oh!  About  these  men,  my 
pals.  What  are  they  like?  Well,  you  know,  they're 
all  different.  '  As  like  as  two  peas '  we  say,  but  the 
peas  aren't  like.  One's  a  good  pea  and  the  other  a 
bad  'un.  There  are  some  bad  'uns  here,  but  I  think 
most  are  sound  or  sound  in  parts.  There  are  some 
ugly,  dirty,  lewd  brutes,  and — yes,  let's  admit  it — 
rather  a  sickening  amount  of  thieving  and  bawdry. 


TRAINING  309 

There  would  be  plenty  of  drunkenness,  but  that's  not 
easy.  Yes,  some  of  my  comrades  are  thieves,  and,  as 
long  as  I'm  a  man  and  not  a  lance-corporal,  they  don't 
cease  to  be  my  comrades.  I  fancy  some  of  the  thieves 
and  blackguards  (not  all — don't  let  us  follow  the  con- 
ventional novelists,  and  regard  blackguardism  and  the 
virtues  as  very  much  the  same)  for  comrades  in  a 
tight  corner.  We're  all  going  through  the  mill,  and 
when  we  emerge  at  the  other  end  the  values  will  be 
different.  I'm  not  quite  sure  yet  whether  I  shall  be 
a  finer  creature  or  broken  or  crushed.  This,  of  course, 
is  only  a  first  process.  The  test,  the  real  trial  is  to 
come. 

"  Yes,  I'm  considerably  puzzled  to  know  why  many 
of  these  men  enlisted.  I  think  some  of  them  were 
drunk,  and  couldn't  see  beyond  their  noses.  Others 
had  flashy  impulses  when  the  band  played.  Don't  let 
us  dissect  the  patriotic  ardors.  A  lot  of  these  fellows 
would  very  much  like  to  get  out  of  it,  but  they're 
caught  by  the  machine  and  know  it.  And  don't  think 
I'm  growing  cynical.  On  the  contrary  I'm  amazed, 
I'm  thrilled  by  the  persistence  of  devotion.  These 
are  common  men  of  a  surprising  nobility.  Heroes? 
Well,  most  of  us  are  heroes  yet.  I  felt  myself  a  hero 
when  I  walked  through  the  Manchester  streets,  with 
the  rest  of  the  rabble  to  be  turned  into  soldiers.  I 
was  extraordinarily  happy.  I  had  the  heroic  emotions. 
I  doubt  if  you  have  them  after  the  event.  I  can  con- 
ceive a  V.C.  with  an  ugly,  hateful  memory  of  his 
great  deed.  It  was  a  time  of  doubt  and  terror.  You 
are  callous,  you  are  an  inhuman  freak  if  you  are  not 


310  TRUE  LOVE 

subject  to  these.  We've  a  wrong  conception  of  the 
heroic  as  something  with  a  smooth,  impeccable  sur- 
face. It's  mistaking  the  fagade  for  the  building.  And 
these  true  heroes  smile  and  strut,  when  the  people  ac- 
claim them  and  the  banners  wave,  while  in  their  hearts 
there's  the  grim  reality.  Fancies,  fancies.  We  haven't 
come  to  this  yet. 

"  I've  time  for  fancies.  I  see  a  long,  long  vista  or 
avenue,  and  there  I  am  going  down  it  confidently 
enough.  But  my  figure  is  lost  in  the  mists  and  I  don't 
know  what  happens  to  it.  I  imagine  a  man  who  does 
all  the  preliminaries  splendidly:  the  right  tone,  the 
right  spirit.  His  leave  takings  are  beautiful,  every 
pose  and  gesture  right,  and  then — out  he  goes  into  the 
dark. 

"  One  wants  to  get  rid  of  the  fear  of  fear.  I  could 
wish  that  the  training  included  being  fired  at  with 
real  bullets.  (By  very  bad  shots  and  at  enormous 
distances,  of  course.)  I  suppose,  when  it  comes  to 
the  point,  I  shall  be  very  much  like  anybody  else — 
exceedingly  funky  at  first  and  gradually  becoming 
brave.  What  I  don't  like — and  I'm  not  sure  whether 
it's  creditable  or  despicable — is  the  idea  of  others  be- 
ing braver  than  I.  They  may  be  rasher  if  they  like, 
or  bigger  fools,  but  I  rather  resent  people  getting 
ahead  of  one  in  the  nobilities.  Forgive  me,  Sibyl,  if 
I'm  writing  like  a  prig.  I  wouldn't  say  such  things 
to  any  one  but  you.  These  are  my  secret  thoughts. 
They'll  stand  accusingly  against  me  if  I  turn  out  a 
rotter.  But  I  couldn't  be  a  coward  under  your  eyes, 
and  you  are  always  with  me. 


TRAINING  311 

"  Now  is  that  just  a  nice  bit  o  Mover's  rhetoric  or 
a  simple  sincerity?  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it's 
sincere  now,  but  there  lurks  in  my  mind  the  notion  of 
a  hullabaloo  of  screaming  shells  and  tremendous  ex- 
plosions in  which  the  loved  one's  image  and  stimula- 
tion might  be  attenuated.  However,  it's  folly  to  be 
always  facing  facts,  especially  when  the  facts  are  dis- 
tant, hazy  surmises.  One  isn't  simple  enough.  Or  is 
this  another  affectation?  (Do  I  bore  you  ?)  If  there's 
to  be  progress  in  the  world,  it  can't  be  just  a  reversion 
to  simplicities.  We're  emerging  from  them.  Subtle- 
ties for  ever !  Hurrah  for  modern  poets  and  dim,  con- 
tortionist painters ! 

"  I'm  being  awfully  long.  What  an  appalling,  dev- 
astating blow  it  would  be  to  realize  that  I  do  bore 
you.  Would  your  sincerity  run  to  telling  me  so? 
Just  a  hint?  No,  an  honest,  plain  word.  I've  a  vein 
of  garrulity,  but  I  could  stop  it  up,  close  it  out.  You 
might  make  a  better  man  of  me  and  a  more  tolerable 
lover.  I  should  respect  you.  Every  man  is  the  better 
for  one  in  the  eye  occasionally.  I  should  have  said  '  in 
the  neck/  but  I  wasn't  sure  whether  the  idiom  would 
be  familiar  to  a  Teuton.  Do  you  like  facetious  insults 
on  your  German  birth?  I  don't  know  you  exactly 
yet.  (Thank  Heaven!)  Don't  get  into  the  way  of 
shrinking  and  not  telling  me. 

"  Long  as  this  letter  is  I  must  tell  you  of  a  man  I've 
come  across  here.  He's  of  what  we  may  call  the  re- 
spectable artisan  class  (How  even  the  conscientious 
literary  man  runs  to  these  neat-looking  cliches!  Why 
don't  I  say  that  he's  a  cotton  operative?  Or  why 


312  TRUE  LOVE 

don't  I  be  more  definite  and  say  he's  a  minder 
in  the  spinning-room?  But  as  you  don't  know 
what  a  minder  is,  this  is  getting  too  definite.  And 
there's  a  nice  little  epitome  of  the  art  of  exposition  for 
you)  and  his  name  is  Robert  Turner.  We  made  ac- 
quaintance one  night,  when  we  lay  alongside  of  one 
another  and  had  trouble  with  fleas.  I  was  friendly  and 
aimed  at  a  comradely  bluntness,  but  very  soon  he  ac- 
cused me  of  having  a  cultivated  voice.  He  wasn't 
exactly  resentful,  he  didn't  certainly  call  me  a  toff,  but 
I  was  made  aware  that  I  belonged  to  the  capitalist  class. 
I  ridiculed  his  distinctions  and  defended  the  cultivated 
voice.  He  bristled  at  the  notion  of  condescension,  and 
wanted  to  know  what  I  meant  by  this  gentleman 
ranker  business.  Why  hadn't  I  taken  a  commission? 
He  snorted  slightly  at  my  explanations — and  they 
weren't  very  convincing,  I'm  afraid — that  I  liked  a  bit 
of  whole-hogging,  and  he  muttered  something  about 
playing  at  it.  He  was  particularly  scornful  of  the 
idea  that  this  war  was  going  to  reconcile  the  classes, 
that  lion  and  lamb  (or  eagle  and  serpent — he  knew 
something  about  Shelley)  would  lie  down  pleasantly 
together.  And  all  the  time  were  were  together  he  was 
rather  nice  to  me  and  did  several  considerate  things. 
"  We  had  one  or  two  rather  tentative  discussions  on 
democracy.  He  was  truculent  at  first,  but  I  think 
I  hit  rather  a  nice  manner  with  him — why  not!  I 
liked  him — and  chaffed  a  little.  He  sneered  at  man- 
ners, and  I  said  that  they  were  what  mattered  most 
in  the  world,  but  that  they  must  go  deep  and  include 
everything.  He  quieted  down,  and  I  really  believe 


TRAINING  313 

that  he  began  to  imitate  me  a  little^  and  then  became 
conscious  of  it  and  hectored.  He  had  a  pathetic  as- 
pect, but  he  was  too  good  for  mere  pathos.  He  made 
me  realize  what  shaky  stuff  my  politics  are,  but  his 
contempt  for  Liberalism  was  excessive.  We  are  just 
to  be  cut  down  or  effaced,  it  seems;  he  ridicules  the 
idea  of  our  making  concessions  that  would  get  us 
into  line  with  realities.  Like  poor  German  girls  in 
England,  there's  no  place  for  us.  I  bothered  him  by 
asking  what  he  would  do  in  my  place.  He  asked  what 
my  income  was  and  how  it  was  obtained.  He  was 
very  respectful  to  the  Herald,  and  appeared  to  regard 
it  as  the  finest  futility  in  existence.  I  made  him  ac- 
knowledge that — '  in  this  transition  period ' — it  was 
more  than  that.  '  Are  you  going  to  arrive  at  a  period 
where  there  isn't  any  transition  ? '  says  I,  feeling  my- 
self an  acute  controversialist,  and  that  bothered  him 
a  bit  too.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  intellectual  honesty. 
"  On  the  general  subject  I  acknowledged  that  the 
classes  we  belong  to — middle,  capitalist,  aristocratic, 
or  what  not — have  the  not  very  exhilarating  prospect 
of  making  concessions  followed  by  concessions.  Bet- 
ter make  them  gracefully  or — better  still — make  them 
with  enthusiasm.  I  tried  to  put  the  point,  without  of- 
fense, that  he  must  not  take  away  my  cultivated  accent 
but  make  arrangements  for  getting  one  himself  (and 
my  serious  position  is  that  we  must  compromise  on 
the  elimination  of  drawls  and  the  maintenance  of  pre- 
cisions and  delicacies).  Suddenly  he  said:  'Would 
you  send  your  son  to  a  public  school  ? '  I  said  I  was 
ready  to  acquiesce  in  a  great  broadening  of  education 


314  TRUE  LOVE 

(a  bit  vague,  I'm  afraid),  but  that,  as  things  are  and 
not  believing  that  to  send  my  boy  to  the  Council  School 
would  help  his  to  Rugby,  I  would.  I  was  human  and 
wanted  to  give  my  children  a  good  time.  I  could  make 
them  and  myself  miserable  by  a  violent  attempt  to 
enter  another  social  class,  but  till  I  could  see  that  it 
would  help  somebody — and  so  on.  '  A  policy  of  grace- 
ful drifting,'  he  sneered,  and  I  reminded  him  that  I 
was  not  a  politician.  '  What  are  you,  then  ? '  he  asked, 
and  I  explained  that  I  was  a  mere  literary  gent.  He 
lost  interest  in  me  a  little  when  he  heard  I  didn't 
write  political  leaders.  Then :  '  Look  here,'  he  said, 
*  we  may  get  to  starvation  point  in  this  war.  We 
may  have  to  be  rationed.  Would  you  have  the  chil- 
dren of  the  rich  fed  on  a  better  scale  than  those  of 
the  poor  ? '  I  said  I  would  not.  '  But  in  time  of  peace 
you  would,  and  you'd  have  them  warmer,  better 
housed,  clothed,  educated.  Where's  your  consistency? 
Where's  your  noblesse  oblige?  You  are  ready  to  fight 
and  die  with  me  now  but  why  not  then?  It's  only 
stupidity  that  makes  the  distinction.  Are  you  ready 
to  wage  the  bigger  war  after  this  war?  And  which 
side  will  you  be  on  ? ' 

"  He  had  read  his  Unto  this  Last,  he  knew  his 
Tolstoy — or  some  of  him — and  he  told  me  he  had  had 
deep  hesitations  about  enlisting.  He  had  to  examine 
his  mind  to  see  whether  he  had  a  conscientious  objec- 
tion to  any  war  and  nearly  decided  that  he  had.  I 
told  him  that  I  had  gone  through  very  much  the  same 
phase  and  we  warmed  to  one  another.  It  struck  me 
that  we  were  very  much  alike.  I  suggested  this  to  him 


TRAINING  315 

and  he  frowned  and  relented  and — I  think — rather 
liked  it.  On  the  whole  I  agreed  to  an  accelerated  rate 
of  democratic  progress,  and  fell  back  on  my  novels 
and  plays  as  an  apology  for  my  existence.  As  to  these 
he  was  curious  and  slightly  contemptuous.  '  We  must 
have  literature,  of  course,'  he  said.  I  understood  that 
it  would  hardly  be  the  sort  that  I  was  likely  to 
produce. 

"  I  confess  he  got  the  better  of  me.  I  don't  think 
much  of  our  bourgeois  liberalism.  I  respect  neither 
its  formulas  nor  its  practices.  But,  as  I  keep  telling 
you,  I'm  not  a  politician  and  I  can't  stop  to  take  up 
politics.  (Am  I  boring  you?  Oh,  Heavens!  Am  I 
boring  you?) 

"  I  hate  the  idea  of  being  disloyal,  even  to  a  class. 
But  how  can  one  keep  to  one's  class  ?  Typical  of  it  is 
my  Uncle  Reggie,  whose  object  in  life  is  to  do  the 
right  things.  I  suppose  he  has  some  fundamental 
shrewdness  that  enabled  him  to  make  a  bit  of  money 
in  the  shipping  line.  He  appears  to  be  always  ticking 
things  off  as  correct.  If  you've  been  to  Windermere 
or  to  Paris  he  says :  '  Where  did  you  stay  ?  '  and  if  you 
mention  the  wrong  hotel  he's  troubled.  '  What  school 
did  you  go  to  ?  '  Rugby  ?  Charterhouse  ?  Quite  cor- 
rect. Where  do  you  get  your  boots?  He  learnt  with 
genuine  distress  that  I  didn't  use  trees.  He  aims  at 
a  sort  of  perfection.  They  needn't  be  perfect  boots 
but  they  must  come  from  the  right  shop.  His  boy  was 
in  the  army,  went  out  with  the  first  batch  and  was 
killed  quite  correctly.  Aunt  Lizzie  is  bearing  up 
wonderfully,  and  the  poor  old  man  never  relaxes  in 


316  TRUE  LOVE 

his  war  work — whatever  it  is — and  is  reassuringly 
conscious  of  just  the  right  degree  of  wonderfulness 
too.  Never  anything  is  to  be  done  that  hasn't  been 
done  before,  and  we  are  to  have  a  world  of  drilled 
patriots  presently.  Literature  and  the  arts?  It  was 
time  for  them  to  be  brought  to  heel.  We  were  getting 
decadent,  and  they  tell  me  Kipling's  sales  are  not  what 
they  were.  Poor  old  fellow !  I  can't  help  liking  him, 
and  I'm  afraid  I  tolerate  this  sort  of  thing  more  than 
I  ought  to. 

"  And  here,  at  last,  I  do  come  to  a  stop.  Now  to 
go  and  bully  some  of  those  privates.  I  could  write 
a  few  more  pages  about  Robert  Turner's  attitude  to- 
wards the  military  machine.  Rather  good  ones,  but  I 
spare  you.  He's  been  drafted  off  somewhere,  by  the 
bye,  and  we  parted  with  a  cordial  handshake  and  a 
good  look  at  one  another. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  you  and  know  when  I  said 
the  wrong  things  and  when  the  right  ones  by  those 
subtle  little  blinkings  and  shrinkings!  And  now  I 
want  to  write  something  stupendously  tender  and,  be- 
ing a  literary  man,  I  see  that  literature's  a  failure. 
Imagine — imagine,  Sibyl,  what  I  would  say!  Even 
your  imagination  cannot  overshoot  the  mark.  (What 
a  phrase!)  I  hope  you're  happy.  Good-by,  my  dear." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MORE  LETTERS 
SIBYL  replied : — 

"  Do  you  really  fear  to  bore  me  ?  Sometimes  I 
think  of  the  long  years — mayn't  we  hope  for  long 
years? — and  my  poor  little  tricks  and  accomplish- 
ments and  wonder  whether  you  will  be  tired  of  them 
some  day.  There  are  awful  examples  of  beautiful 
people  tiring  of  one  another,  aren't  there?  And  how 
can  we  be  safe?  The  more  brilliant  and  passionate 
you  are  the  sooner  will  it  all  fade.  Are  we  brilliant 
and  passionate?  I  can  be  as  quiet  as  a  mouse.  I 
can — I  think — be  gently  affectionate  for  a  very  long 
time — say  for  ever — and  not  bother  you  by  flares  of 
passion  except  now  and  then  for  a  change.  Perhaps 
I  could  do  these  when  you  weren't  there.  I  could  sing 
and  wave  my  arms  about  and  recite  the  tirades  from 
my  parts. 

"  Ah,  my  parts !  I've  a  touchstone  for  them  now. 
I  say,  '  That's  true.  To  love  is  to  be  like  that,'  or 
'  No,  I  couldn't  feel  like  that.'  Before  ever  I  saw  you 
I  used  to  say  such  things,  but  now  I  say  them  differ- 
ently. I  wonder  if  I'm  really  acting  Juliet  as  beauti- 
fully as  it  feels.  When  Romeo  isn't  on  the  stage  you 
are  Romeo;  when  he  is  you  are  somehow  mixed  up 

317 


318  TRUE  LOVE 

with  Mr.  Finnemore,  who  is  pleasant  and  boyish  and 
not  very  adequate.  He  thinks  me  awfully  good,  but 
then  he  thinks  himself  very  good  too.  The  other  day 
I  heard  him  say,  '  By  Jove ! '  under  his  breath  when  I 
had  been,  as  he  would  say,  coming  it  strong,  and  it 
gave  me  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  I  like  praise  and  ap- 
plause, and  the  people  who  know  to  say  I'm  very 
good.  The  time  when  you  gave  me  pure,  unqualified 
pleasure  was  when  you  first  gave  me  a  line  or  two  in 
the  Herald.  They  were  all  curious  to  know  what  the 
Herald  would  say  about  me.  The  principles  of  Herald 
criticism  seem  to  be  a  profound  mystery  to  the  pro- 
fession. '  Y'never  know  where  the  silly  devils  will 
break  out,'  as  an  old  actor  said  to  me.  They  pro- 
fess contempt  for  you,  but  they've  an  uneasy  notion 
that  you  know  something.  I've  felt  that  way  my- 
self. 

"  I  say  '  My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate,' 
and  there  seems  a  strange,  awful  appropriateness 
about  it,  though,  as  you  know,  I  don't  hate  the  Eng- 
lish. I  suppose  I  am  as  much  English  as  German  in 
my  own  self,  in  all  the  differences  that  make  me  a 
separate  creature.  I  would  grow  more  and  more  Eng- 
lish and  cleave  to  you,  but  this  awful  hatred  of  us 
stiffens  me  and  angers  me.  I  tell  myself  that  it's 
natural,  but,  then,  it  is  of  an  evil  nature.  I  do  try 
to  be  lofty  and  philosophic,  but  I'm  afraid  that — as 
you  might  say — it  isn't  my  line  of  parts.  I  find  my- 
self imitating  you,  and  even — do  you  detect  it? — writ- 
ing like  you.  I  mean  only  a  bit  like  you.  Do  you 
notice  that  I'm  learning  to  make  little  parentheses, 


MORE  LETTERS  319 

but  I  stick  to  dashes  generally  because  it  would  be 
slavish  imitation  to  use  brackets?  I  like  ideas  to  pop 
up  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  the  way  you  do  it. 
Oh !  I'm  afraid  I  shall  just  imitate  you  and  become 
a  little,  feminine  you.  So,  as  I  don't  like  that,  I  must 
stick  to  my  Germanism  and  quarrel  with  you  some- 
times. But  it's  the  likes  that  quarrel  so  I  mustn't. 
(Oh!  Heavens!  Am  I  boring  you?  Already?) 
Putting  love  and  affection  (and  infatuation)  on  one 
side,  have  you  any  idea  how  much  I  admire  you? 
(Come!  He'll  like  that.  I'm  a  cunning  one.)  (No 
more  brackets.) 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  you  to  see  me  act  the 
'  potion  scene.'  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it  yet,  and 
there  are  times  when  I  feel  myself  just  clattering 
along  like  anybody  else.  There,  Geoffrey !  Isn't  that 
conceited?  A  lot  of  acting  is  just  like  that  thing  at 
a  fair  where  you  punch  a  sort  of  cushion,  and  the 
harder  you  punch  the  higher  jumps  a  little  rod.  Poor 
me,  who  hasn't  got  a  great  punch  like  Mrs.  Siddons, 
has  to  do  some  coaxing  and  subterfuging  to  make  the 
rod  move.  I  want  to  do  things  my  own  way,  but 
when  it  says  '  shriek '  in  the  stage  directions  you  can't 
very  well  whisper.  '  Be  not  too  tame  neither,'  and  I'm 
trying  to  be  awful  and  beautiful.  Yes,  but  the  great 
actors  are  that  without  trying.  They  learn  their  words 
and  their  business,  and  then  they  just  come  rushing 
along.  If  you  see  that  I'm  trying  it  won't  do  at  all. 
I'm  too  intelligent,  Geoffrey,  but  I  shall  make  a  good 
housewife.  Don't  write  plays  for  me  to  act  in;  it 
would  remind  you  of  my  limitations.  Write  splendid 


320  TRUE  LOVE 

plays  and  I'll  act  in  them.  I'll  show  you.  I  did 
astonish  you  once,  didn't  I? 

"  I  ramble  on  and  I  wonder  whether  you'll  like  it. 
We're  not  just  gushing  lovers,  are  we?  We  shall 
incite  and  stimulate  one  another  to  terrific  heights, 
and  find  we're  exhausted  and  come  toppling  down. 
Do  you  fear  that?  If  they  are  real  heights  it's  not  a 
bad  way  to  die?  And  you  aren't  really  dead  at  the 
bottom,  but  begin  to  crawl  bravely  up  again.  These 
are  fears  for  quiet  times.  You  and  I  will  always  be 
hungry  for  one  another,  always — at  the  best — snatch- 
ing at  moments,  '  short  leaves,'  fragments,  fragments. 

"  I  feel  that.  I  feel  that  intensely,  Geoffrey,  and  so 
I  say  it.  Thousands  of  girls  are  feeling  it  and  I'm 
glad,  I'm  passionately  glad,  to  be  one  with  English 
girls  and  German  girls.  I'm  not  exactly  superstitious, 
but  it's  no  use  pretending  you  don't  feel  things  un- 
logically.  Perhaps  Juliet  isn't  good  for  me  now.  I 
seem  to  slip  so  easily  into  her  forebodings.  It's  all 
calamity,  calamity  coming.  But  it  has  to  be  beautiful. 
We  have  to  keep  it  beautiful.  It's  easy  for  me.  The 
difficulties  are  for  you,  and  that's  well,  for  the  strength 
is  yours.  It's  easy  to  suffer  at  home.  You'll  say, 
generously,  that  I  haven't  a  home.  Well,  then,  it's 
easy  to  suffer. 

"  I  think  of  you,  and  when  I  drink  from  the  phial — 
I'm  a  realist  and  put  some  stuff  in  it  that  nips  my 
throat — and  cry  '  Romeo,  I  come,'  it's  like  an  act  of 
dedication.  You  are  before  me  then  and  I'm  losing 
you  and  all  is  dark  and  strange.  The  future  is  rush- 
ing on  us  and  I  could  hear  the  guns  in  France — I  think 


MORE  LETTERS  321 

of  you  as  in  France.  I  suppose  I'm- just  using  you  for 
play-acting.  Oughtn't  I  to  do  that?  I  couldn't  help 
it.  I  couldn't  possibly  help  it.  Please  take  my  acting 
seriously.  Just  now  I  must  have  it  and  it's  part  of 
you  and  me.  It  helps  me  and  it  takes  me  to  you,  and 
if  I  should  tear  myself  away  from  it,  I  should  have  to 
think  and  think  about  I  don't  know  what.  Or  ought 
I  to  become  a  nurse  like  Mary  and  that  kind  Miss 
Warde?  Would  English  soldiers  let  me  dress  their 
wounds  ?  How  gladly  I  would  do  it ! 

"  Mr.  Finnemore  is  quite  a  handsome  young  man, 
Geoffrey.  Would  you  like  to  play  at  being  jealous? 
I  can  produce  rather  a  nice  vein  of  coquettishness  and 
I'm  sure  he  would  respond.  As  it  is  I  play  the  elder 
sister,  and  it's  understood  between  us  that  he  is  very 
young.  He's  frightfully — unnecessarily — respectful, 
and  it  makes  me  feel  too  mature  for  Juliet.  I  sup- 
pose you  critics  say  that  Juliets  are  either  crude  or 
experienced,  and  that  each  is  worse  than  the  other. 
I  shocked  Mr.  Finnemore  very  much  by  showing  him 
a  photograph  of  Madox  Brown's  '  Romeo  and  Juliet,' 
and  asking  him  if  we  could  get  anything  like  that.  He 
thought  at  first  that  I  was  joking,  for  Mrs.  Madox 
Brown,  who  was  the  model  for  Juliet,  was  a  rather 
stout  and  not  very  young  lady.  He  likes  things  pretty, 
though  he  talks  about  passion.  He  didn't  see  much 
point  about  the  Romeo's  arm  stretched  out  over  the 
landscape  and  the  Juliet's  closed  eyes. 

"  Yes,  he  is  respectful  and  kind,  and  I  think  it  is 
partly  in  pity.  The  murder  is  out.  They  all  know 
that  I  am  German,  and  the  public  will  know  it  next 


322  TRUE  LOVE 

and  hiss  me.  But  all  the  actors  are  kind,  or  if  they 
are  not  they  do  not  obtrude.  There  will  always  be  a 
world  of  artists  for  me.  It  is  the  artists  who  will 
save  the  world  and  keep  it  fresh  and  pure.  We  are 
a  foolish,  gadding,  jealous  lot,  but  our  little  sham 
world  is  more  real  than  the  big  one  of  iron  and  brass 
and  gold.  Quite  poetical  I'm  becoming,  Geoffrey. 

"  I  do  like  you  to  tell  me  about  your  young  Socialist. 
Can't  we  reform  the  world  by  just  being  kind  and 
decent  to  one  another,  instead  of  having  to  get  to 
understand  about  economics  and  Acts  of  Parliament? 
It's  so  easy  to  be  kind.  That  is — unless  people  are 
annoying.  Or  unless  they  bore  you?  Must  I  reply 
seriously  to  the  question  whether  you  bore  me?  Or 
whether  anything  you  could  say  about  my  being  a 
German  girl  could  hurt  me?  Am  I  to  consider 
whether  you  are  a  prig  or  likely  to  become  a  rotter 
or  a  coward?  I  suppose  a  bullet  might  hit  you  on 
the  head  and  make  you  quite  a  different  person.  Let's 
wait  till  it  happens.  There's  death,  of  course.  But 
nothing  can  take  from  us  what  we've  had.  It's  like 
climbing  a  mountain;  you've  always  been  on  the  top. 
I  dare  say  this  is  illogical  but  it's  conviction.  You 
will  always  be  very  noble  to  me  even  if  you  do  silly 
things  sometimes.  I  won't  be  keeping  you  at  it  and 
nagging  at  you  to  live  up  to  ideals.  Don't  be  afraid 
of  that.  And  don't  think  I'm  always  going  to  bother 
you  with  praises  and  incense.  Just  a  little  now  while 
you  are  away. 

"  I  saw  that  little  Mr.  Imalian  the  other  day ;  in- 
deed, I  had  tea  with  him  at  his  invitation,  and  of 


MORE  LETTERS  323 

course  it  was  at  the  tea-shop,  as  you  call  it.  I'm  glad 
you  introduced  him  to  me,  for  I  find  him  such  a  re- 
freshment after  you  Britishers.  He  knows  how  to 
care  for  things  gently — not  faintly  but  gently,  and  he 
knows  what  things  are  worth  caring  for.  This 
learnedness  about  exquisite  things  is  so  rare  and 
charming.  He  showed  me  some  books  he  had  been 
buying,  and  I  liked  to  see  him  handle  them.  They 
weren't  very  good,  he  explained,  and  showed  me  little 
things  about  them  that  weren't  quite  right,  but  he 
treated  them  with  such  respect.  I  felt  that  I  was  away 
from  the  cruel  war,  and,  as  it  were,  in  a  peaceful 
garden.  And  that  made  me  think  of  the  war. 

"  I  was  conscious  that  Mr.  Imalian  felt  us  to  be 
in  a  sort  of  defensive  alliance.  Being  an  Armenian, 
he  is  technically  a  Turkish  subject,  and  is  liable  to 
ridiculous  restrictions — as  though  an  Armenian  would 
side  with  a  Turk!  His  smile,  when  he  told  me,  was 
a  revelation  in  irony  which  I  was  invited  to  share. 
Yes,  I  think  if  it  were  not  for  you  he  would  be  more 
explicit  about  the  alliance.  You  are  somehow  in- 
volved with  all  these  savages,  though  he  does  speak 
so  nicely  about  you.  Why  should  a  civilized  man  be- 
come a  soldier  without  compulsion?  Yet  I  can  imag- 
ine him  glowing  over  his  country's  wrongs.  A  hint 
of  them  made  it  seem  that  to  him  they  were  the  reality 
and  this  slaughter  in  Europe  a  foolish  phantasmagoria. 
I  can't  quite  see  him  away  from  a  polite  environment, 
but  in  some  reincarnation  he  should  return  to  the 
mysteries  of  the  East.  Am  I  conventional?  Is  it  the 
true  mystery  to  have  him  here? 


TRUE  LOVE 

"  He  is  extraordinarily  kind  and  not  in  the  least 
in  love  with  me  unless  it  be  as  he  loves  his  books  and 
engravings.  (Oh,  dear!  Is  this  conceit?)  He  offers 
to  lend  me  precious  books  to  mitigate,  to  decorate, 
theatrical  lodgings,  or  he  would  supply  me  with  books 
to  read.  He  would  get  me  German  books  from  the 
Foreign  Library  if  I  liked,  though  to  take  out  Ger- 
man books  now  is  to  put  yourself  under  suspicion. 
The  lady  who  gives  out  the  books  at  this  library  is 
suffering,  it  seems,  from  her  environment.  The  books 
are  mainly  French  and  German.  The  French  are  a 
gallant  nation,  certainly,  but  the  morals  in  their  books 
are  deplorable,  and  the  blameless  lady  is  anxious  to 
know  which  books  are  safe  so  that  she  may  recom- 
mend them  to  the  members.  But  the  German  books 
now  are  filled  with  unimaginable  horrors,  and  so  the 
poor  woman  sits  all  day  surrounded  by  solid  wicked- 
ness, shrinking  and  feeling  as  innocuous  as  she  can. 
Mr.  Imalian  is  funny  about  it,  and  says  he  sometimes 
accepts  her  recommendations,  but  the  innocent  French 
book  is  terribly  innocent.  The  war  leaves  a  few  quiet 
places.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I'm  in  one  when  I  talk 
to  the  people  in  our  company.  There's  Mr.  Emerson 
(Emerson!)  who  plays  the  County  Paris,  understudies 
Romeo,  and  watches  Mr.  Finnemore  for  incipient  dis- 
ease. He  doesn't  seem  to  have  heard  of  the  war.  I 
suppose  that,  like  a  good  many  young  men,  he  edges 
away  from  it  nervously.  He's  immersed  in  his  old 
interests  and  company  gossip,  and  the  war  is  just  bad 
times.  He  talks  to  me  about  '  new  readings '  for  the 
part  of  Romeo,  and  the  way  Forbes-Robertson  used  to 


MORE  LETTERS  325 

enter  the  tomb.  You  remember^-don't  you? — that 
little  ragging  play  of  yours  about  the  Playhouse  and 
the  repertory  theaters  in  which  the  prompter  had  lost 
his  voice?  It  has  come  round  to  me  that  he  thinks 
the  joke  was  not  in  the  best  of  taste;  of  course,  he 
doesn't  tell  me  so  himself,  because  that  would  not 
be  in  the  best  of  taste.  He  likes  to  talk  to  me  about 
'  taste.'  The  other  day  there  was  an  advertisement  of 
Macbeth  as  '  the  great  Shakespearean  play,'  and  he 
couldn't  see  that  it  was  funny. 

"  Don't  I  write  about  trivialities?  I  clutch  at  them 
like  a  drowning  man  at  straws.  No,  that's  nonsense. 
There  are  big  and  terrible  things  about  and  I  turn  to 
the  little.  I  sometimes  envy  you  because  you  have  to 
do  just  what  you're  told. 

"  It  comes  to  me  very  strongly  sometimes  that  I'm 
writing  encouragements — or  would  if  I  could — to  an 
English  lover  who  is  going  out  to  fight  my  nation. 
Am  I  a  sort  of  traitor?  But  I  want  us  to  be  so  good, 
so  fine,  so  superfine.  Superfine !  Is  that  the  danger  ? 
Am  I  just  being  foolish  with  my  Idea?  Is  it  an  idea 
at  all?  There  are  times  when  it  dies  down  to  flatness 
and  I'm  miserable  and  crave  excitement  and  despise  it. 
But  I  mustn't  end  on  this.  My  spirit  is  weak  and  I 
won't  pretend  that  it  isn't.  I  can  always  cheer  up 
wonderfully.  And  I  cheer  up  now  at  the  notion  of 
sending  you  chocolates  and  tobacco.  Do  not  fear.  I 
know  the  right  kind  of  tobacco ;  I  know  that  just  any 
sort  won't  do,  and  I've  got  one  of  the  paper  covers 
put  away.  Isn't  that  nice  and  thoughtful  of 
me?" 


326  TRUE  LOVE 

Mary  wrote  to  him: — 

"  I  cannot  hold  out  against  Sibyl.  I  am  ashamed  of 
my  jealousies.  And  yet  I  cannot  promise  that  they 
will  not  recur.  It  is  old-fashioned,  I  suppose,  to  think 
of  eradicating  the  evil  from  one's  nature.  Sometimes 
I  feel  poisoned,  or  poisonous,  which  is  worse.  I  am 
all  prides  and  exclusions  and  I  go  on  pretending  to  be 
better  than  I  am.  You  must  pretend  and  pretend  till 
that  better  becomes  your  true  life.  Just  be  yourself, 
the  modern  people  say — but  if  you  are  full  of  evil ! 
There  is  evil.  It  is  nonsense  to  say  there  is  no  evil. 
The  way  is  to  imitate  Christ.  Humbly  to  imitate. 
That  is  not  to  lose  your  own  soul  but  to  find  it.  The 
Christ  need  not  be  exactly  the  Christ  in  the  Bible 
or  what  you  call  the  legendary  Christ.  You  must 
make  your  own  Christ,  and  so  imitate  what  is  within 
you.  The  Christ  in  the  Bible  is  adorable,  but  there  is 
not  enough,  and  I  feel  that  I  must  put  other  things 
in.  To  keep  to  what  is  written  of  Him  may  make 
one  cold  and  narrow.  It  is  a  confused  story,  and  it 
must  become  orderly  in  one's  mind.  As  to  what  hap- 
pened so  long  ago,  I  suppose  I  am  as  skeptical  as 
you  are. 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  marry  some  day  and  that 
I  should  never  marry.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I 
thought  you  would  marry  some  one  like  Milly  Warde. 
My  thoughts  were  very  indefinite,  and  I  see  now  that 
they  were  very  stupid.  Milly  is  my  friend,  and  lately 
I've  been  resenting  the  way  you  think  of  her.  She 
is  good,  she  is  simply  good.  If  she  were  a  village 


MORE  LETTERS  327 

maiden  carrying  a  pail  of  milk  yotr  would  rave  about 
her.  Poor  Milly!  I  think  of  all  the  Millys  of  the 
world  and  men  like  you  passing  them  by  to 
follow 

"  Well,  when  Sibyl  came  I  thought  she  was  very 
clever  and  dangerous  and  seductive.  It  was  childish, 
but  I  am  childish,  and  I'm  still  Puritan,  though  I  pre- 
tend to  be  emancipated.  She  puzzled  me,  but  I  knew 
I  wasn't  fair.  She  seemed  to  have  all  sorts  of  tricks 
and  embroideries,  and  I  was  not  generous  enough  to 
see  that  a  love  of  beauty  may  be  expressed  in  all 
manner  of  little  ways.  I  was  not  generous  enough  to 
see  that  the  shams  and  stains  of  the  theater  could  not 
harm  her. 

"  One  person  can  never  quite  understand  another, 
and  it  has  been  strange  to  me  that  she,  a  German 
woman,  could  agree  calmly  that  you  should  go  to 
fight  against  her  nation.  And  yet  there,  again,  my 
unfairness  creeps  in,  for  I  want  people  not  to  be  Ger- 
mans and  English,  unless  it  be  as  they  are  dark  or  fair, 
but  just  human  creatures  helping  one  another.  She 
glows  at  the  idea  of  your  going  to  this  horrible  slaugh- 
ter, and  it  seems  to  me  a  twisted  romance ;  it  is  the 
Old  Testament,  not  the  New.  They  say  conscription 
will  come,  and  I  think  that  then  there  will  be  many 
to  suffer  for  their  conscience's  sake.  They  will  be  to 
me  the  true  successors  of  Hampden  and  Pym.  At 
any  rate  when  that  time  comes  people  who  think  like 
me  will  have  to  keep  alive  in  the  world  something  that 
your  wars  and  your  patriotism  would  sweep  away. 
You  have  no  room  for  it;  you,  or  those  whom  you 


328  TRUE  LOVE 

serve,  dare  not  let  it  modify  by  ever  so  little  their 
blood  and  iron  lest  it  should  spread  like  a  corruption. 
I  write  in  pride  and  I  would  be  humble.  I  do  not 
know  God's  way.  It  may  be  that  you  are  doing  His 
work  in  the  rough  and  that  it  can  only  be  done  that 
way. 

"  Sibyl  is  beautiful,  and  you  deserve  a  beautiful 
love.  It  was  base  of  me  to  think  you  might  be  con- 
tent with  something  inferior,  a  compromise.  No,  it 
must  be  the  great  thing. 

"  I  have  given  you  nothing.  I  have  been  brooding 
at  home,  I  have  been  exacting,  I  have  been  foolishly 
waiting.  Yet  at  the  back  of  everything  we've  been 
staunch  friends,  haven't  we? 

"  There  are  times  when  Sibyl  seems  to  me  so  charm- 
ing and  so  strong  in  her  fineness  that  I  could  hardly 
dare  to  love  her.  It  is  not  at  such  times  that  I  am 
jealous.  She  gives  me  extraordinary  pleasure. 

"  I  write  of  such  things  while  the  war  goes  thunder- 
ing on  outside.  And  here  I  am  learning  to  be  a  nurse, 
and  finding  myself  very  clumsy.  I  try  to  be  thor- 
ough and  obedient,  but  I  can't  take  to  it  naturally 
like  Milly.  You  did  know  that  she  is  here  ?  She  likes 
Sibyl  so  frankly  and  heartily!  Must  I  confess  that  I 
think  of  a  schoolgirl  handling  delicate  china?  I  be- 
lieve I  could  be  rather  good  at  malice." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HONEYMOON 

IT  was  not  ordained  that  Geoffrey  should  have  his 
experience  of  the  trenches  as  a  private  or  even  as  a 
corporal.  He  was  marked  for  promotion  and  felt 
that  it  would  be  affectation  to  refuse  it.  And  so  it 
came  about  that  at  the  beginning  of  May,  1915,  he 
was  a  second-lieutenant  on  leave,  which  was  under- 
stood to  be  probably  "  last  leave,"  when  Sibyl  and 
he  set  off  on  their  honeymooning.  Their  wedding  was 
of  the  least  announced,  most  casual  kind,  but  they 
rejected  the  aridness  of  the  Registry  Office,  and  made 
one  of  half  a  dozen  couples  at  the  Manchester  Cathe- 
dral, overcoming  the  faint  compunctions  which  the 
Church  ritual  stirred.  "  For  folk  like  us,"  said  Geof- 
frey, "a  cathedral  is  grandiose,  but  for  us  it's  a  big 
occasion,  and  I  wish  St.  Paul's  had  been  handy." 
They  liked  their  walk  through  the  busy  Manchester 
streets,  with  their  secret  of  the  tremendous  occasion 
unguessed  at  by  preoccupied  citizens  who  glanced 
kindly  at  them.  Sibyl  learnt  with  approval  that  the 
Cathedral  had  been,  in  the  affectionate  remembrance 
of  bygone  inhabitants,  the  Old  Church;  the  venerable 
and  stable  had  a  peculiar  appeal  on  this  morning  of 
fluttering  happiness  and  gathering  apprehensions.  Be- 
fore they  entered  they  turned  to  look  at  the  miserable 

329 


330  TRUE  LOVE 

fagade  of  the  railway  station  with  its  warning  clock. 
Luggage  reposed  there  ready  for  the  northern  flight, 
and  prosaic  circumstances  became  a  dazzling  aspect  of 
romance. 

Mary,   nursing  in  a  southern   hospital,   had  tele- 
graphed messages ;  Burke  was  on  the  high  seas.    Geof- 
frey had  made  no  effort  to  collect  his  friends,  and 
the  day  before  had  gone  round  to  Attar,  who  agreed 
with  alacrity  to  be  best  man.     Two  or  three  Herald 
men  came  in  hastily  while  the  ceremony  was  in  process. 
Imalian,  looking  queerly  decorous  in  a  pew,  contem- 
plated them  gravely,  and  Sibyl  was  vaguely  aware 
of  the  Wibberleys  and  one  or  two  other  acquaint- 
ances.   Attar  tried  to  describe  the  perfunctoriness  of 
the  ceremony  as  a  sketch  in  a  tremendous  frame.    They 
were  all   friendly,  but  not  very  high-spirited.     The 
little  crowd  drifted  across  the  station  with  Sibyl  and 
Geoffrey,  and  there  was  sandwich-eating  at  the  buffet. 
Mr.  Wibberley  made  a  feeble  proposal  of  champagne, 
but  Sibyl  demurred,  and  he  was  never  sure  that  it 
would  have  been  in  the  best  taste.    So  some  had  coffee 
and  some  bitter  beer,  and  cheerfulness  was  spasmodic. 
Attar  said,  in  an  aside,  "  The  husk  of  ecstasy  is  no 
great  matter."     The  other  man  said,  "Yes,  but  it's 
all  husk  for  us."     They  moved  slowly  towards  the 
train.    There  was  a  despairing  examination  of  "  seven- 
pennys,"  and  the  hesitation  between  good  things  read 
and  the  wilderness  of  mediocrity.    A  joke  about  spy 
stories  was  considered  by  the  Wibberleys   in  more 
than  doubtful  taste,  though  Sibyl  had  responded  to  it 
with  a  flash  of  gaiety.     On  the  platform  time  went 


HONEYMOON  331 

slowly  till  a  real  joke  gladdened^the  last  minutes. 
Attar,  intercepted  by  a  carriage-cleaner,  came  to  tell 
them  that  he  had  had  an  offer  of  second-hand  confetti 
recently  swept  up  after  a  genial  occasion.  The  ex- 
perienced eye  had  seen  what  the  party  lacked.  "  There 
will  be  no  difficulty  about  the  price,"  said  Attar  to 
Sibyl.  "  It  is  well  within  our  means.  You  have  only 
to  say  the  word." 

"  I  thought  those  things  were  a  spontaneous  joy 
offering,"  said  Sibyl.  "Are  we  to  say  whether  the 
sun  must  shine  on  us  or  not  ?  " 

"  It  amounts  to  that,"  said  Attar.  "  You  are  not 
in  the  grove.  You  want  to  do  things  your  own  way. 
You  choose.  It's  difficult  to  modify  an  old  ritual." 

"  We  have  acted  pretty  simply,"  said  Sibyl  with 
some  disappointment. 

"  It  has  all  been  charming  to-day,"  said  Attar,  and 
he  was  ready  to  tell  a  bigger  lie  than  that.  But  the 
guard  was  whistling  and  everything  became  hurried 
and  cordial.  When  Sibyl,  after  her  wavings  of  fare- 
well, sank  back  in  the  carriage  she  said :  "  And  they're 
asking  one  another  how  he's  going  to  get  on  with  his 
German  girl." 

"  We'll  answer  that  presently,"  said  Geoffrey.  The 
present  was  good  enough.  The  present  was  of  enor- 
mous dimensions  or — to  look  at  it  another  way — it 
was  a  world  of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite. 
They  made  a  leisurely  progress,  putting  up  at  an 
hotel  on  the  skirts  of  the  Lake  country  before  pen- 
etrating to  the  recesses  of  the  mountains.  They 
thought  they  would  stay  there  a  few  days,  and  though 


332  TRUE  LOVE 

they  joked  about  them  they  took  a  childlike  pleasure 
in  the  hotel  luxuries.  Sibyl  had  not  tasted  often  of 
such  things  and  was  ready  to  enjoy  them  frankly. 
"  It's  nicer  than  theatrical  lodgings,"  she  said  mod- 
erately, "and  there's  no  sign  of  danger."  They  had 
actually  discussed  the  possible  dangers  of  their  situa- 
tion, which  were,  in  brief,  in  the  possibilities  of  con- 
tacts with  fellow-guests.  Geoffrey's  khaki  was  a  pro- 
tection, of  course,  but  was  Sibyl  ready  to  swear  that 
nothing  would  ruffle  her  ?  "  Ridiculous  people  stay 
at  these  places,"  said  Geoffrey,  and  he  suggested  pleas- 
antly that  a  St.  Bartholomew  massacre  of  the  idle 
rich  in  the  holiday  resort  hotels  would,  on  the  whole, 
be  a  benefit  to  the  community.  "  A  few  decent  people 
like  ourselves  would  suffer,  but  think  what  a  splendid 
clearance  of  sour,  faded  women ! "  Sibyl  shuddered 
at  the  cruel  pleasantry  and  warned  him  that  men, 
too,  grow  old  and  useless.  She  questioned  his  asser- 
tion that  these  women  had  never  been  alive. 

Their  particular  apprehension  was  that  they  might 
be  drawn  into  Anglo-German  discussion  in  which  Sibyl 
could  not  be  expected  to  shine.  They  made  a  com- 
pact to  be  very  discreet  and  to  take  all  humorously; 
even  to  delight  in  the  excesses  of  ferocious  patriot- 
ism. So  they  gave  smiling  assent — which  tended  to 
become  the  set  grin — when  naive  ladies  vied  with  one 
another  in  assertions  of  the  ruthless,  they  shook  their 
heads  over  flickers  of  the  window-blind  that  might 
be  communications  to  England's  enemies,  they  agreed 
that  a  shale  tennis  court  might  be  a  cover  for  a  bed 
of  concrete.  They  were  two  fond  young  people, 


HONEYMOON  333 

strangely  insensible  to  these  serious  issues  of  the  war 
and  nods  and  winks  soon  put  them — poor  things — 
into  their  place  as  honeymooners.  The  only  thing 
against  them  was  the  Manchester  Herald,  which  Geof- 
frey received  every  morning,  and,  whether  or  not  it 
was  as  bad  as  some  reports  indicated,  it  was  certainly 
a  "  Radical  rag  " — as  the  gentlemen  say — and  very 
different  from  the  Morning  Post.  These  ladies  clung 
to  the  Morning  Post,  and  would  not  for  worlds  have 
been  seen  with  any  other  journal.  The  Times,  of 
course,  was  quite  the  right  thing  for  the  gentlemen, 
and  it  was  sometimes  whispered  that  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph was  a  very  comfortable  paper  and  might  be 
read  at  home;  to  be  seen  reading  it  here  would  be 
like  being  discovered  with  a  bottle  of  gin.  Literary 
the  Manchester  Herald  might  be,  but  what  is  litera- 
ture at  such  a  time?  And  this  is  no  time  to  make 
too  much  of  commerce — so  long  as  one's  dividends 
are  paid  regularly — and,  besides,  very  good  authority 
says  that  the  Herald's  commercial  policy  is  now  most 
unsound.  However,  perhaps  the  young  soldier  knew 
no  better. 

Sibyl  and  Geoffrey  continued  to  smile  assents,  and 
Geoffrey  found  that  his  smile  was  sometimes  inter- 
cepted by  a  companionable  fellow  whom  he  had  met 
in  the  smoke-room.  This  Mr.  Doveton  had  borrowed 
the  Herald,  and  some  guarded  comment  on  it  had  led 
to  conversation.  He  was  not  exactly  a  Herald  man, 
though  he  remarked  that  certain  organs  of  the  Yellow 
Press  appeared  to  be  written  by  criminal  lunatics  for 
imbeciles.  He  thought  the  Herald's  distinction  be- 


334  TRUE  LOVE 

tween  a  military  caste  and  the  German  nation  could 
not  be  maintained,  and  Geoffrey  interpreted  this  rather 
ingeniously  as  a  point  in  favor  of  the  military  caste. 
To  the  suggestion  that  there  must  be  a  core  of  sound- 
ness he  demurred.  His  theory  was  that  Germany  had 
many  virtues,  but  no  appreciable  part  with  a  balance 
of  virtues.  "  I  admire  the  Germans  extremely,"  he 
said.  "  They've  got  ahead  in  the  general  application 
of  intelligence — I  wouldn't  say  intellectually — and  they 
think  they  see  their  way  to  an  efficient  policing  of 
the  world.  Economical  efficiency  follows  and  the 
humanities  depend  on  this.  I'm  not  speaking  of  mil- 
itary pundits,  but  of  the  intelligent  classes.  They're 
quite  capable — many  of  them — of  an  ordered  attempt 
to  regenerate  humanity.  Of  course,  they  must  begin 
by  being  inhuman  if  that's  the  only  way  to  get  on 
top.  Any  sacrifice  for  logic!  The  bigger  the  better. 
What  I  blame  them  for  is  that  they're  not  frank.  A 
few  enfants  terribles  of  the  Bernhardi  type,  perhaps, 
but  they  might  make  out  a  great  case  on  pure  effi- 
ciencies. The  world  is  fighting  for  the  old  Liberal 
formula:  Better  govern  yourselves  ill  than  be  gov- 
erned well.  Certainly  there's  no  real  fusion  in  Ger- 
many of  the  military,  the  commercial,  and  economic, 
and  the  humanitarian.  They  pretend  it.  The  old 
illusion  of  the  chosen  race.  It's  stupid  to  regard  the 
Kaiser  as  a  hypocrite.  He  believes  in  God  and  him- 
self. And  of  course  we  must  beat  them  or  forever 
hold  our  peace." 

As  to  atrocities,  Mr.  Doveton  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders.    "  They've  a  severe  theory  of  war,"  he  said, 


HONEYMOON  335 

"  which  is  founded  on  intellectuarconviction.  When 
you  give  license  to  your  soldiers  on  theory  they'll  play 
the  devil  and  all  in  practice.  Must  we  infer  the  bru- 
tality of  the  race?  Well,  hardly,  or  but  partly.  In 
war  the  one  side  always  exaggerates  the  atrocities  of 
the  other.  Do  we  inquire  into  the  morals  of  possible 
allies?  We  would  accept  help  from  any  of  these 
Balkan  scoundrels.  Don't  let  us  be  too  self-righteous 
or  we  shall  never  find  any  one  good  enough  to  make 
peace  with." 

Geoffrey  quoted  a  half-remembered  story  of  some 
negotiator  who  failed  to  come  to  terms  with  the  great 
Napoleon,  because  he  insisted  on  the  formal  address : 
"  usurper  and  enemy  of  the  human  race." 

Doveton  laughed  approvingly,  and  appreciating  an 
auditor  who  did  not  demand  mere  beatings  of  the 
patriotic  drum,  he  continued :  "  The  invasion  of  Bel- 
gium was  bad,  of  course,  but  no  treaty  is  ever  main- 
tained after  the  time  to  break  it  has  come.  This  is 
a  platitude,  but  once  grant  that  Germany  must  go 
through  Belgium  or  lose  the  war  and  '  scrap  of  paper ' 
is  a  reasonable  description  of  the  barrier.  Germany's 
real  offense  was  not  in  violating  Belgium's  neutrality, 
but  in  behaving  like  an  arrogant  brute  in  Belgium. 
One  condemns  all  that,  of  course.  We  talk  about 
Germany's  confidence,  and  she  is  eternally  boasting, 
but  there's  no  such  thing  as  confidence  when  you  go 
to  war.  She  is  impelled  to  cruelty  by  fear.  She  is 
in  terror  of  her  life." 

They  were  in  the  hotel  lounge,  and  the  time  was 
late  afternoon.  A  boy  brought  in  evening  papers 


336  TRUE  LOVE 

and  Doveton  unfolded  one.  His  exclamation  annoyed 
Geoffrey  inexplicably ;  it  revealed  a  disconcerting  con- 
dition of  nerves.  "  They've  sunk  the  Lusitania"  said 
Doveton.  He  began  to  curse  like  any  other  man,  his 
intellectual  detachment  abandoned.  Indeed,  it  seemed 
that  his  half-cynical  tolerations  vexed  him  now.  "  I 
withdraw  all  I  said  in  mitigation,"  he  cried.  "  They're 
brutes,  to  be  treated  as  brutes."  The  news  was 
meager  but  definite.  Geoffrey  read  it  with  a  sinking 
heart.  His  commiseration  was  for  Sibyl;  he  was  to 
reflect  presently  that  he  had  taken  the  calamity  cal- 
lously. As  the  two  men  stood  together  frowning  and 
stiff,  Sybil  appeared. 

She  had  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Doveton, 
who  handed  her  the  paper,  and  with  a  gesture  that 
seemed  to  renounce  an  unbearable  world,  with- 
drew. She  read,  and  looked  blankly  at  Geoffrey 
over  the  top  of  the  paper,  read  again  and  laid  it 
down. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  true,"  she  said. 

"  Let  us  hope  so." 

"  Geoffrey,  do  you  feel  any  resentment  towards 
me?" 

"You?"  he  cried. 

"That's  what  I  think  of  first.  It  isn't  all  these 
poor  people — children,  babies.  That's  far  away.  I 
only  feel  it  bluntly  yet.  It's  you  and  me.  Have  we 
made  an  awful  mistake?  Are  you  thinking — she's  a 
German?  Because  I  am.  It's  my  people  who  have 
done  this.  Tell  me  what  you  feel.  No,  don't  come 
near  me  just  yet." 


HONEYMOON  337 

"  What  I  feel,"  he  said,  "  is  tfiat  this  hurts  you. 
I  can  hardly  feel  anything  else." 

"Oh,  Geoffrey!"  she  said.  "Is  that  true?  Is  it 
wrong  of  me,  even  now,  to  feel  a  little  happiness? 
Just  for  a  moment.  No,  don't  kiss  me — don't — it  is 
wicked  to  be  happy  now.  We  are  both  thinking  of 
ourselves  when  all  this  horror  and  misery  has  come." 

"We  feel  together  about  it,"  he  said.  "There  is 
no  difference  of  feeling  or  opinion  between  us." 

"Do  yoa  say  that  to  test  me?"  she  said. 

"  No."    And  then  he  added :  "  To  reassure  myself." 

"  Then  there  is  a  difference,"  she  cried.  "  There 
is." 

"  I  hope  not,  my  dear." 

"  Geoffrey,  I  feel  that  this  is  a  cruel  and  abominable 
deed — that  nothing  can  justify  it." 

"  I  knew  you  would." 

"  And  yet — it  has  been  done.  Do  you  want  me  to 
turn  now,  to  renounce  everything?  To  become  Eng- 
lish and  hate  the  Germans  ?  " 

"  You  are  English,"  he  said. 

"  That's  nonsense.  Forgive  me.  We  must  be  very 
careful  with  one  another  now.  Geoffrey,  all  sorts  of 
resentments  are  boiling  in  me.  I'm  afraid  of  your 
saying  something  that  I  might  think  not  quite  gener- 
ous. You  want  me  to  say :  They  are  all  wicked.  I've 
done  with  them.  I  cannot  do  that.  I  should  just 
become  a  hypocrite.  I'm  casting  round  in  my  mind 
for  excuses,  for  defenses.  Yes,  I  mean  excuses  for 
slaughtering  all  these  innocent  people.  Be  generous 
to  me,  Geoffrey.  I  am  in  extreme  need  of  it." 


338  TRUE  LOVE 

She  sank  into  a  cushioned  seat.  He  sat  beclde  her 
and  she  repulsed  him  gently.  She  was  pale  and  quiet. 
She  whispered :  "  Say  some  hard,  clear  things  if  you 
like." 

She  did  not  resist  when  he  took  her  hand  and  he 
held  it  while  he  made  his  recital.  "  Granting,"  he 
said,  "that  the  news  is  true  and  that  Germany  does 
not  repudiate  the  act,  what  sort  of  defense  could  be 
set  up?  I  dare  say  both  sides  quibble  about  inter- 
national law.  I  can  only  look  at  the  thing  broadly. 
I  think  the  Germans  begin  with  the  assumption  that 
they  must  win.  Our  jingoes  threaten  them  with  na- 
tional extinction  if  they  don't.  So  anything  becomes 
legitimate.  Their  war  book  maintains  that  true  hu- 
manity may  lie  in  ruthlessness,  and  it  is  a  dictum  of 
one  of  their  chief  military  writers,  that  military  action 
can  only  be  barbarous  when  it  is  taken  without  a  pur- 
pose. And,  of  course,  Germany  maintains  that  our 
blockade  is  a  ruthless  exercise  of  power  without  in- 
ternational sanction,  so  that  we  are  attempting  to 
starve  the  population.  What  is  the  difference,  they'll 
say,  between  drowning  people  suddenly  and  starving 
them  slowly?  And  when  you  begin  to  kill,  what  does 
it  matter  whom  you  kill?  A  soldier's  life  is  not  less 
precious  than  that  of  a  woman  or  a  child.  As  to 
the  means,  what  paltry  distinctions  there  are  between 
poisoning  with  gas  and  blowing  into  fragments !  You 
are  permitted  by  civilization  to  do  one  and  not  the 
other.  There's  a  novel  by  Disraeli  in  which  his  hero 
as  a  boy  at  school  got  the  other  boy  down.  The  by- 
standers were  horrified  when  he  continued  to  pummel 


HONEYMOON  339 

him.  *  What  did  I  care  for  their  silly  rules  of  mock 
combat  ?  '  said  the  young  Jew — I  think  he  was  a  Jew. 
He  had  him  and  wasn't  going  to  let  him  go.  Chivalry 
is  not  for  modern  States." 

It  was  a  cold  exposition  and  his  grasp  on  her  hand 
had  slackened.  She  pulled  her  hand  away,  exclaim- 
ing :  "  You  hate  saying  all  this." 

"  My  heart  is  not  in  it,  certainly,"  he  said ;  "  it 
doesn't  convince  me." 

"  But — but,"  she  said,  "  mayn't  the  German  people 
— some  of  them,  many  of  them — hate  it  and  know  they 
can't  help  it?  If  you — if  the  English — did  equally 
terrible  things  would  everybody  here  revolt  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  they'd  say  the  others  did  it  first." 

"  This  has  come  between  us,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  say  that,  my  dear." 

"  I  know  you  have  been  very  just  and  very  gen- 
erous too  in  all  you've  said.  But  I  only  know  it 
coldly.  You  don't  blame  me,  but  you  feel  differ- 
ently." 

"  I  want  you  to  think  of  this  as  a  horrible  crime," 
he  said. 

"  I  feel  it  so." 

"  And  an  awful  stupidity." 

"  I  dare  say." 

He  shook  her  hand  again.  "We've  had  a  great 
shock  together  and  we've  endured  it,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,  Geoffrey." 

She  said  she  would  lie  down  a  little  before  dinner 
and  they  parted  tenderly. 

The  next  day  he  smoked  an  after-breakfast  ciga- 


340  TRUE  LOVE 

rette  with  Doveton,  who  had  regained  his  philosophic 
bearing.  They  were  digesting  the  morning  confirma- 
tions of  the  disaster  and  their  comments  ran  pretty 
well  in  unison.  Sibyl  entered  suddenly  and  Geoffrey 
saw  that  she  was  agitated.  She  stopped,  looking  at 
Doveton,  who  rose,  but  she  included  both  when  she 
said :  "  They're  turning  those  poor  old  people 
out." 

"  You  mean "  but  Geoffrey  knew  whom  she 

meant. 

Addressing  Doveton,  Sibyl  said :  "  They're  German, 
it  seems.  The  old  couple  that  sit  at  the  little  table 
by  the  window.  I  didn't  know  or  I  would  have  spoken 
to  them.  I  did  speak  to  them  just  now.  The  guests 
here  have  protested  against  their  remaining.  I  heard 
the  manager  tell  them,  and  the  old  man  was  so 
gentle  and  polite.  His  wife  took  his  arm,  and  they 
stood  there  before  that  manager,  who  thought  he  was 
being  tactful.  I  spoke  to  them  in  German,  and  it 
was  quite  startling  and  pathetic.  Geoffrey,  I  cannot 
bear  it.  I  cannot  keep  to  the  agreement." 

"  My  wife  is  German,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Geoffrey !  That's  beautiful  of 
you." 

Doveton  was  mystified,  but  vaguely  sympathetic. 
He  murmured  something  about  not  having  the  least 
idea,  hesitating  over  his  line.  "  They  looked  harmless 
enough,"  he  said,  trying  to  turn  the  awkward  cor- 
ner. 

"  What  is  so  amazing  to  me,"  said  Sibyl,  frankly 
including  Doveton,  "  is  that  these  people  who  have 


HONEYMOON  341 

been  so  cruel  to  an  innocent  old  -man  and  woman 
are  now  making  their  plans  for  a  pleasant  day." 

"  The  sense  of  duty  done,"  said  Doveton,  coming 
down  on  Sibyl's  side  of  the  fence. 

"  I've  wondered  sometimes,"  Sibyl  continued, 
"  whether  there's  anything  more  merciless  than  the 
English  of  the  comfortable  class.  Forgive  me,  Geof- 
frey. Perhaps  they  are  just,  but  they  do  not  enter 
into  the  feelings  of  others.  You  see  it  with  their 
servants  and  even  with  their  children.  They  may  say 
kind  things  but  they  are  implacable." 

"  A  strong  sense  of  order,"  said  Doveton.  He  was 
finding  the  position  interesting. 

"  Think  of  those  old  Germans  packing  now  up- 
stairs. Think  of  the  old  lady  folding  her  dresses 
hastily." 

"  We  mustn't  be  too  sentimental,"  said  Doveton. 
"  We've  other  things  to  thinks  about." 

"  You  mean  the  Lusitania?  "  said  Sibyl.  "  If  they 
were  passionate  I  might  forgive  them.  They  are  only 
spiteful.  And  to  me  this  is  a  far  greater  calamity 
than  to  you.  If  this  were  a  duty  that  hurt,  I  could 
respect  them.  But  we  mustn't  bore  Mr.  Doveton. 
What  now,  Geoffrey  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we'd  better  be  going,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  but  is  that  necessary?"  said  Doveton.  "If 
nobody  knows — I  mean  there  couldn't  be  any  objection 
— I'm  sure  Madam  would  not  speak  so  freely  to  others 
as — very  much  honored  and  sympathize  in — difficult 
position." 

"  I  don't  insist  on  a  melodramatic  exit,"  Sibyl  said 


342  TRUE  LOVE 

to  Geoffrey,  "  but  you  will  say  why  we're  going,  won't 
you?" 

"  Dash  it  all ! "  said  Geoffrey,  grinning  ruefully, 
"  and  here's  this  fellow  coming." 

The  suave  manager,  recipient  of  congratulations 
and  ready  for  more,  paused  as  Geoffrey  indicated  that 
he  wished  to  speak  to  him.  Full  of  his  subject,  he 
said :  "  They  will  be  gone  in  half  an  hour.  Quite 
quietly." 

"  No  bloodshed  ?  "  said  Sibyl,  and  the  idea  of  those 
gentle  old  people  putting  up  a  fight  had  its  humor. 
The  manager  looked  at  her'  doubtfully.  This  was 
the  lady  who  had  spoken  to  them  impulsively,  and 
it  appeared  in  their  own  language. 

"  We  are  obliged  to  be  very  particular,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  and  we  must  do  our  best 
to  help  you.  My  wife  is  German  and  decides  that 
as  her  compatriots  are  turned  out  she  cannot  stay 
here.  Please  prepare  our  bill  and  let  us  have  a  car- 
riage in  " — he  consulted  his  watch  and  Sibyl's  eye — 
"  an  hour.  Say,  half-past  eleven." 

The  manager  hesitated,  rubbing  his  chin,  and  los- 
ing something  of  his  grace  of  demeanor.  "  Do  people 
know  ?  "  he  said  bluntly. 

"  Know  what  ?  "  said  Geoffrey. 

"  About  the  lady." 

"You  may  inform  them  as  soon  as  you  please," 
said  Geoffrey. 

But  that,  of  course,  was  not  at  all  what  he  meant. 
Taking  in  Doveton  as  a  friend  of  the  party  he  sug- 


HONEYMOON  343 

v 

gested  that  there  was  no  need  toilet  it  out.  He 
murmured  something  about  British  officer — shouldn't 
dream  of  interfering — his  directors — difficult  posi- 
tion. 

"At  half-past  eleven,  then,"  said  Geoffrey. 

Doveton  said :  "  You  might  let  me  have  my  bill 
immediately  after  lunch.  There's  a  coach  about  half- 
past  two,  I  think  ?  " 

The  manager  looked  from  one  to  another  and  with- 
drew muttering.  Sibyl  bowed  to  Doveton  and  went 
to  her  room.  Geoffrey  said :  "  Look  here !  Your 
going  has  nothing  to  do  with  us  ?  " 

Doveton  considered.  "  It  was  an  impulse,"  he  said. 
"  Mind  you,  I  don't  find  the  action  of  these  people 
so  unnatural.  This  Lusitania  affair  calls  for  protest. 
Unphilosophic  if  you  like.  You  know  what  people 
are." 

"  Then  why  do  you  go  ?  " 

He  considered  again.  "  Frankly,"  he  said,  "  I  think 
it  was  an  instinctive  tribute  to  your  wife.  I'm  ready 
to  hang  the  whole  German  nation  this  morning.  She's 
another  matter." 

"  I  can  hardly  thank  you,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  for  I 
think  she  would  resent  your  attitude." 

"  It  isn't  an  attitude,"  said  Doveton.  "  That's  ex- 
actly what  it  isn't." 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Geoffrey.  "  I  hope  we  may 
meet  in  happier  times.  But  go  and  make  peace  with 
your  friend  the  manager." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Doveton.  "  Tell  your  wife  that  I'm 
going  because  I  can't  stand  the  slippery  devil." 


344.  TRUE  LOVE 

A  little  later  Sibyl  whispered  to  Geoffrey :  "  No 
tips." 

"Why?"  he  said. 

"  They  refused  them  from  the  Germans.  I  think 
the  manager  told  them." 

And  so  several  deserving  menials  stared  blankly 
after  the  officer  and  his  wife  who  had  so  strangely 
neglected  the  usages  of  civilized  society. 

They  drove  away  with  their  modest  luggage,  de- 
termined to  avoid  hotels,  and  a  puzzled  driver  changed 
directions  according  to  their  fancy.  It  became  neces- 
sary to  bait  and  lunch,  and  presently  they  set  off  again. 
He  pulled  up  at  last  and  asked  them  where  they  were 
going.  There  was  veiled  menace  in  his  voice,  for 
the  poor  man  was  conscious  of  lengthening  distances, 
a  mounting  bill,  and  some  lack  of  sanity  in  his  fares. 
"  What  place  is  this  ?  "  cried  Sibyl,  and  it  appeared 
that  it  was  Skelwith  Bridge.  "  Drive  over  the  bridge," 
she  said,  and  they  crossed  the  rushing,  foaming  stream. 
They  stopped  again,  and  the  man  said  it  was  a  big 
hill  into  Little  Langdale.  But  Sibyl  descended,  walked 
a  few  yards  forward  to  a  cottage,  and  in  an  incredibly 
short  time  emerged  crying,  "  Here !  " 

And  here  it  was.  They  found  quiet,  friendly  folk 
to  whom  the  war  was  but  a  distant  alarm;  they  lived 
simply,  climbing  the  fells,  bathing  in  the  river,  watch- 
ing the  clouds.  The  country  sights  and  sounds  and 
smells  were  welcome  and  sufficient.  They  had  peace 
and  an  intimate  affection.  Nothing  disturbed  them 
but  the  flight  of  time.  They  were  conscious  of  the 
inexorable,  but  they  were  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
"  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  " 

FROM  France  Geoffrey  wrote  to  Sibyl: — 

"  I'm  one  of  those  who  liked  to  keep  their  desks 
tidy,  and  have  some  sort  of  program  for  the  day  and 
the  week.  And  so  one  of  the  things  that  oppresses 
my  spirit  is  the  monstrous  confusion  of  this  life.  We 
are  more  settled  than  we  were,  but  we  are  not  settled 
at  all.  The  definite  commands,  the  clicking  of  all 
sorts  of  machinery,  give  an  illusion  of  order,  but 
there  are  times  when  it  seems  that  there  is  no  order; 
that  all  is  lapses  and  omissions,  waste  and  repetition. 
I  can  see  that  it  must  be  so,  that  war  and  parade  are 
two  different  things.  And  this  illusion  or  pretense 
of  orderliness  somewhere  is  necessary  for  our  sanity. 
I  must  not  give  you  details,  but  everything  done  here 
is  like  gathering  a  handful  and  letting  most  of  it 
slip  through  your  fingers.  I  am  trying  my  best 
to  be  a  good  officer,  and  I  don't  think  I  am  worse 
than  most,  but  I'm  fearfully  conscious  of  being  un- 
tried, of  giving  orders  with  a  lack  of  conviction,  or 
insisting  on  useless  performances.  I  want  to  have 
human  relations  with  the  men  under  me,  but  I'm 
so  afraid  of  letting  down  discipline  that  I  hardly 
dare  experiment  in  the  affabilities — to  say  nothing 
of  the  humanities.  I've  tried  the  paternal  sometimes 

345 


346  TRUE  LOVE 

— borrowing  the  idea  from  the  Russians  in  Tolstoy's 
war  stories — but  it  doesn't  quite  come  off.  Perhaps 
this  is  because  I  do  it  nervously.  It's  like  trying  to 
be  literary,  trying  to  be  the  artist. 

"  There  are  fashions  in  this  war  and  it's  a  good 
one  for  the  officer  to  admire  his  men.  I  follow  it, 
of  course,  but  being  a  bit  superfine  and  superior,  I 
do  it  with  a  difference.  All  my  life  I've  been  trying 
to  join  in  the  chorus  and  then  breaking  out  into  some 
discordance  of  my  own.  And  here,  at  the  heart  of 
reality,  one  is  haunted  by  cliches;  we  are  all  saying 
the  same  resounding  things,  but  we  get  them  out  of 
the  newspapers.  Have  you  noticed  that  when  a  man 
comes  back  from  the  war  he  quotes  the  newspaper 
to  you?  He  has  a  precious  experience  of  his  own, 
but  he  makes  it  like  the  newspapers.  Ah!  the  news- 
papers! They  run  the  war,  and  the  history  of  it 
will  never  be  disentangled  from  their  plausibilities. 
Few,  indeed,  of  these  correspondents  are  strong 
enough  to  see  events  with  their  own  eyes.  I'm  not 
in  the  middle  of  it  yet,  but  I've  seen  enough  to  shake 
my  faith  in  history.  Less  and  less  do  I  believe  in 
it.  A  strong  man  makes  history?  A  strong  writer 
might.  Even  our  attitude  towards  the  Germans  is 
derived  from  the  newspapers. 

"  Naturally,  my  dear,  you  will  take  all  this  with  a 
grain  of  salt.  So  much  depends  on  one's  mood,  and 
I  can  veer  from  the  sentimental  to  the  savagely  cyn- 
ical. My  men — some  of  them — are  dirty  brutes  and 
they  are  potential  heroes.  Any  one  of  them  may 
turn  out  a  better  man  than  I.  This  is  a  great  school 


"FROM  THE  TRENCHES"  347 

of  humility  or,  at  any  rate,  of  proportion.  I  think 
the  man  I  shall  dislike  the  most  is  the  hard,  fearless 
hero.  Confound  him!  I  shall  want  to  line  up  to 
him  with  quite  the  wrong  sort  of  temperament. 
Shan't  I  be  down  on  the  men  who  expose  themselves 
unnecessarily  ? 

"  But  at  present  we're  none  of  us  heroes.  We  hear 
guns  going  off  in  the  distance  and  wonder  whether 
we  shall  wobble  when  our  turn  comes.  There's  a 
difference  between  the  men  who  have  taken  the  plunge 
and  those  on  the  brink,  though  we  pretend  to  ignore 
it.  I  amuse  myself  sometimes  by  trying  to  distinguish 
between  those  who  have  and  those  who  haven't,  and 
though  I'm  often  wrong,  the  difference  is  there.  Do 
I  dwell  on  the  point  morbidly?  Do  you  fear  that  I 
may  be  one  of  the  unhappy  ones  who  cannot  face 
it?  Don't  fear.  I  shall  try  so  uncommonly  hard." 

Again  he  wrote: — 

"  Sibyl,  I'm  in  a  curious  state  of  exaltation  and  hor- 
ror; I  hardly  know  which  predominates.  I've  got  the 
plunge  over,  and  it's  an  enormous  relief,  but  the  blood 
and  violence  sicken  me.  I  turn  to  you,  I  must  write 
to  you.  I  am  all  raw  and  (metaphorically)  bleeding. 
I've  crossed  an  abyss  and  it  separates  me  from  you, 
but  in  spirit  (in  spirit,  Sibyl)  I  must  come  to  you. 
I  want  to  be  comforted  and  healed,  and  I  dare  say  I'm 
selfish,  but  yet  I  know  that  in  appealing  to  you, 
I  make  everything  between  us  stronger  and  finer. 
I'm  not  whining,  I've  not  lost  control  (thank 


348  TRUE  LOVE 

Heaven!),  but  I  feel  that  if  I'm  not  frank  now  I 
never  shall  be.  And  yet  I  don't  know  that  I've  much 
to  say.  I  seem  to  want  to  convey  to  you  pure  emotion 
rather  than  experiences.  I'm  frightfully  alone  (every 
man  is),  and  I  fight  against  that  terrible  idea  that  we 
must  be  alone.  You  are  infinitely  helpful  and  com- 
forting. 

"  You  realize  now,  don't  you,  that  there's  the  ordi- 
nary chance  of  my  being  killed  or  wounded  any  day? 
I  want  to  say  it,  though  it's  not  necessary,  because 
we  want  frankness.  I  shall  let  you  know  my  move- 
ments as  well  as  I  can  so  that  you  may  sometimes 
be  relatively  at  ease.  I  think  this  way  is  best  for  us. 
I  talked  the  other  night  to  a  boy  here  who  told  me 
he  had  promised  his  mother  to  let  her  know  all  he 
could  of  the  dangers  of  his  movements.  He  said  they 
had  '  decided  it  was  best.'  Perhaps  the  mother  would 
concentrate  in  prayer.  I  feel  some  softening  of  my 
heart  (not  of  my  brain)  towards  prayer.  Ah!  But 
think  of  the  mother  who  does  not  pray  and  yet  would 
know  when  her  boys  go  to  battle !  What  noble  things 
this  war  has  brought  to  us!  I  hasten,  as  a  good 
citizen  of  the  world,  to  say  that  it's  damnable  on 
balance. 

"  We  were  rushed  up  unexpectedly  to  the  trenches. 
There  was  no  gradual  initiation  in  safe  places  for  us. 
We  had  heard  a  vast  cannonade,  and  as  we  marched 
up  in  the  twilight  we  met  a  lot  of  stragglers,  stretcher- 
bearers  with  wounded,  walking  cases,  and  some  that 
were  not  wounded.  It  seemed  an  appalling  muddle, 
but  there  was  some  reassurance  in  our  marching  stiffly 


"  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "  349 

together.  I  think  I  was  rather  nervously  emphatic 
about  trifles  such  as  dressing  the  line,  feeling  that 
everything  depended  on  precision,  and  that  these  poor 
devils  who  were  running  away  must  be  taught  a  lesson 
by  the  novices.  Crowding  up  the  communication 
trenches  shattered  this  notion  of  one  irresistible  force 
— it  was  never  very  strong,  perhaps — and  the  sensa- 
tions of  confusion,  aimlessness,  and  danger  were  al- 
most overwhelming.  But  there  was  growing  in  me  a 
hope  that  might  swell  into  confidence;  I  was  shaky, 
but  I  was  not  going  to  lose  control;  I  had  moments 
of  pure  funk,  but  I  overcame  them.  I  began  to  realize 
that  it  could  be  done.  There  in  that  slushy,  dark 
communication  trench,  when  we  paused  to  let  the  con- 
gestion in  front  of  us  remove  itself,  I  had  a  moment 
of  self-communion  that  is  a  high-water  mark  in  my 
poor  life.  I  was  to  pass  through  many  phases  of 
discouragement  during  the  next  few  hours,  but  there 
for  the  moment  I  did  rise  above  my  circumstances. 
I  was  calm  and  I  was  romantic.  I  was  no  end  of  a 
fine  fellow  and,  figuratively,  shook  hands  with  myself. 
And  quite  gaily — yes,  gaily,  Sibyl — I  kissed  my  hand 
to  you. 

"  Splendid,  wasn't  it  ?  I  came  back  to  the  real  thing 
when  we  moved  on  again,  but  I  was  the  better,  I  think, 
for  that  bit  of  masquerading.  I  got  good  control  of 
my  voice,  which  I'd  been  rather  afraid  to  use,  and 
was  pleased  to  be  able  to  pitch  it  low  with  authority ; 
I  think  it  heartened  the  men.  But  stumbling  along 
that  plashy  trench  was  poor  fun. 

"  We  held  the  front  trench  till  morning — and  when 


350  TRUE  LOVE 

I  say  that  I'm  speaking  conventionally,  for  there  wasn't 
really  the  sensation  of  holding  anything.  We  cowered 
in  a  deep,  dirty  ditch,  and  wondered  what  was  going 
to  happen  next.  Death,  we  imagined,  was  just  round 
the  corner,  and  the  bolder  spirits  among  the  men  did 
some  rather  strained  joking  on  the  subject.  It  was 
chilly,  but  not  really  cold,  and  as  nothing  happened 
we  gained  a  little  confidence.  I  couldn't  recapture 
my  moment  of  bravado,  and  I  tried  the  line  of  emo- 
tional comradeship ;  I  tried  to  think  of  these  fellows 
as  brothers  in  a  great  quest.  It  wasn't  very  successful, 
but  you  must  occupy  your  mind  somehow,  and  I'm 
learning  that  the  mind  is  a  recalcitrant  member  that 
has  to  obey  the  will.  I  suppose  it  was  stupid  of  me 
to  try  to  sentimentalize  at  such  a  moment,  but  I  think 
I  wanted  something  human  and  decent  to  die  on  if 
death  was  coming.  At  first  I  suppose  one  thinks 
too  much  of  the  danger  of  death,  and  then,  perhaps, 
too  little.  I'll  be  canny  on  your  account  if  not  on 
my  own.  Well,  I  found  that  fancies  and  niceties 
wouldn't  do,  and  that  the  higher  emotions  are  for 
quiet  times.  The  only  thing  is  to  hold  on — to  say 
'  I  will '  or  '  I  will  not,'  as  the  case  may  be.  That's 
all  you  can  do. 

"  In  the  gray  of  the  dawn  both  sides  began  with 
their  guns  again,  and  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  bear 
it.  The  noise !  I,  who  used  to  spin  round  and  curse 
when  a  whistle  went  off  in  a  railway  station!  The 
noise  is  the  worst  thing  in  war.  Or  is  it  the  smells? 
Or  the  cold  ?  I'm  not  going  to  spare  you  and  pretend 
that  I  like  it.  That  morning  I  had  an  ugly  glimpse 


"  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "  351 

of  nervous  collapse.  I  knew  I  mustn't,  I  thought  I 
knew  I  wouldn't,  but  how  could  I  know?  This  hold- 
ing on  is  the  greatest  thing  in  life.  So  it  seemed  and 
so  it  seems.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  mattered. 
What  amazing  creatures  we  are!  I  was  just  man- 
aging not  to  make  a  fool  of  myself  and  it  was  the 
extreme  of  heroism — morally  I  felt  that  I  was  a  great 
hero.  But  the  others  were  doing  the  same.  Could 
they  possibly  have  felt  the  noise  and  terror  as  I  did? 
I  was  doing  it  all,  so  to  speak,  on  my  noblesse  oblige, 
but  I  wasn't  any  better  than  the  others.  There  were 
a  few  exceptions.  Cowardice  is  like  sea-sickness  and 
you  mustn't  encourage  it.  There  was  one  poor  boy 
who  was  sobbing  and  I  kicked  him.  I  wasn't  exactly 
angry  with  him,  and  I  think  it  was  a  sort  of  attempt 
at  reasonable  action.  I  kicked  him  pretty  hard,  but 
I  spoke  jocularly.  He  said,  'All  right,  sir,'  in  a 
frightened  way  and  he  pulled  himself  together  fairly 
well.  The  wonderful  thing  is  that  it  was  fairly  well. 
You  may  get  to  the  bottom,  or  you  may  recover  and 
reach  the  top,  but  to  go  on  striving  and  holding  your 
own  on  the  inclined  plane  is  the  real  heroism.  I  could 
have  cried  over  this  lad.  I  watched  him  and  gave 
him  some  encouragement.  I  wanted  to  apologize  for 
kicking  him,  but  I  thought  I  mustn't.  He  was  rather 
dog-like  and  bore  no  malice.  I'm  afraid  he  was  killed ; 
we  lost  him. 

"  This  failure  of  nerve  is  an  awful,  permeating 
disease  which  takes  many  forms.  Lots  of  fine  sol- 
diers are  at  home  with  it,  and  there  is  an  amiable 
conspiracy  to  call  it  by  some  harmless  name.  Here 


352  TRUE  LOVE 

a  brutal  frankness  prevails,  and  nothing  is  more  diffi- 
cult than  to  shirk  with  credit.  Men  do  stupid,  rash 
things  because  they're  afraid  of  cynical  comment — 
or  afraid  of  themselves.  There's  a  great  deal  of 
charity  to  a  genuine  breakdown ;  it's  what  might  hap- 
pen to  any  of  us.  There  was  an  awful  scene  the 
other  day  with  a  young  subaltern,  and  yet  I  had  it 
from  those  who  know  him  that  he  had  behaved  mag- 
nificently a  few  days  before. 

"  Why  do  I  harp  on  this  sort  of  thing  to  you  ?  My 
sympathies  run  strongly  to  the  moral,  mental  struggle. 
I  think  I'm  through  the  worst  of  this  phase  of  it  my- 
self, and  I  can  take  a  sort  of  beneficent,  understand- 
ing attitude  to  others.  But  who  knows  what's  to 
come? 

"  I  evade  the  point.  The  Germans  attacked  at  dawn 
and  got  into  our  trenches.  I'm  not  going  to  describe 
this  minutely.  For  one  thing,  I  can't ;  for  another,  I 
don't  want  to.  I  can't  because  it  was  all  such  an 
extraordinary  confusion,  and  because  I  can't  remem- 
ber the  order  of  things.  The  incredible  (and  expected) 
happened,  and  we  had  the  fellows  tumbling  down  on  to 
us.  Poor  devils!  Sweaty  brutes!  It's  strange — that 
physical  contact  with  a  man  you're  trying  to  kill. 
Glimpses,  touches,  are  vivid  beyond  belief.  It  was 
ugly,  horrible.  It  transcended  all  of  ugly  or  horrible 
I  could  have  conceived.  And  yet  I  was  not  a  mere 
ravening  beast.  Don't  think  that.  Perhaps  I  didn't 
get  to  the  true  fighting  madness,  but  I  had  a  bit 
of  sanity  left.  I  had  even  the  ghost  of  compunction 
mixed  up  with  evil  passions.  At  the  worst  I  could 


«  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "          353 

have  responded  to  an  appeal  of  reason.  I  think  so. 
I  was  horribly  frightened,  and  yet,  I  suppose,  I  was 
brave  rather  than  otherwise.  I  laid  about  me.  Ah! 
No  details.  One  has  to  face  things  and  to  tuck  them 
away.  Horror  and  exaltation!  I  think  of  you  now. 
I  try  in  a  futile  way  to  exalt  the  experience.  I've 
a  craving  for  the  spiritual,  for  something  mystical 
or  quietist  or  even  strenuous.  I  want  to  purify  my- 
self for  you.  Without  you  I'm  lost.  Somebody  to 
believe  in  me,  to  pity  me — love  me.  But  I  must  keep 
myself  in  hand.  In  this  life  you  must  always  be  ready 
to  turn  on  stoicism.  Don't  think  I'm  just  raving  with 
emotion.  I'm  aiming  at  the  truth. 

"  The  poor  devils  who  got  to  us  were  killed  or 
wounded — perhaps  one  or  two  were  captured,  but  it's 
hard  for  a  man  in  your  trench  to  persuade  you  he's 
harmless — and  presently  we  had  to  counter-attack. 
To  go  over  the  top  for  the  first  time  is  the  strangest 
sensation.  You  have  just  a  lurking  hope  that  nobody 
will  see  you  and  that  nothing  will  happen,  and  then 
you  see  men  falling  and  you  experience  the  most 
awful  loneliness.  I've  heard  a  man  put  it  that  '  you 
feel  there's  nobody  between  you  and  God';  it's  a 
kind  of  nakedness.  In  the  trenches,  even  when  the 
shells  are  thickest,  you  cling  to  the  idea  of  safety, 
but  outside  you're  the  sport  of  malignant  fireworks. 
You  advance  but  you  don't  know  where  you're  going 
or  why  or  what  comes  next.  As  an  officer  you 
must  act  confidently,  but  you  are  not  sure  of  anything. 
There  is  nothing  stable  or  fixed  in  the  world,  and 
even  the  men  whom  you  know  intimately  have  be- 


354.  TRUE  LOVE 

come  strangers  to  you ;  their  expressions  are  so  differ- 
ent that  they  are  hardly  recognizable.     Those  that 
can  do  it  speak  to  one  another  with  a  kind  of  hectic 
jocosity;  when  things  are  at  the  worst,  or  nearly  at 
the  worst,  you  retain  your  consciousness  as  a  social 
being  who  has  presently  to  put  a  face  on  things.    And 
you  can  still  wonder  whether  a  nice  little  bone-splin- 
tering wound  may  presently  stretch  you  on  an  ambu- 
lance bound  for  home,  or  whether  it  will  be  a  thud 
on  the  head  and  blackness  evermore.     You  mustn't 
think  too  much  of  that  nice  little  wound;  it's  de- 
moralizing and  unsportmanlike.    As  to  whether  it's 
good  to  try  to  face  the  idea  of  death  or  to  put  it  away 
from  you,  I'm  in  two  minds.     Perhaps  this  doesn't 
matter,  for  these  things  decide  themselves.     A  man 
here — one  of  my  fellow-officers — put  a  strange  ques- 
tion to  me  lately.     He  asked  whether  I  felt  that  the 
effects  of  high  explosive  shattered  the  idea  of  an 
after  life.    The  point  wasn't  arguable,  of  course,  and 
it  was  queer  to  find  him  suggesting  the  innate,  the 
deeply  instinctive  as  ground  for  disbelief.     He  had 
got  the  notion  from  a  book  he  had  been  reading  and 
he  couldn't  get  away  from  it.    We  talked  about  im- 
mortality and  really,  you  know,   it's  an  interesting 
question  for  men  in  our  position.     Immortality!     Is 
belief  in  it  '  the  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind '  ?    The 
spirit  here  seems  too  fragile  to  count  much.     I  am 
brutal  with  you — in  the  French  sense.     What  I  feel 
— queerly — is  that  I  don't  want  the  idea  of  immor- 
tality to  go  out  of  the  world  altogether.    Let  us  keep 
a  few  childish,  credulous  people  to  maintain  the  idea. 


"FROM  THE  TRENCHES"  355 

How  frank  one  can  become!  Ultra-frank?  Fanci- 
fully frank? 

"This  counter-attack.  What  happened?  I'm  not 
very  clear.  We  got  somewhere — for  anything  I  know 
it  may  have  been  the  German  trenches — but  it  wasn't 
tenable  and  we  came  back.  We  didn't  run  away,  but 
we  came  back.  I  see  that  I  must  strive  to  keep  a 
clearer  notion  of  what's  going  on  if  I'm  to  be  a  good 
officer.  It  was  all  distractions  and  holding  oneself 
together,  and  I  don't  know  what  happened.  It's  par- 
donable, and  I  think  I  didn't  do  badly  for  a  first  time. 
I've  lost  the  sense  of  fighting  a  machine,  and  I  can 
conceive  Germans  as  gasping  inefficients,  poor  devils 
who  would  rather  be  at  home.  I  shall  have  my 
terrors  and  alarms,  but  I  feel  so  much  better  now 
that  I  know — what?  That  I'm  not  the  exceptional 
coward.  Do  you  want  me  to  be  the  exceptional 
hero?  I  like  the  idea  of  just  doing  a  good,  honest 
share. 

"  Yes,  that  desire  for  comfort  in  an  ambulance  is 
despicable,  but  we  all  have  times  when  the  one  wish 
is  that  this  cup  should  pass.  We  all  sentimentalize 
a  bit,  and  feel  like  writing  rhetorical  letters  home. 
We  all  think  of  days  in  the  country,  and  of  our  stu- 
pidity in  having  omitted  to  be  happy  when  we  could. 
Ah !  But  I've  something  to  remember,  I've  not  missed 
the  best  of  life.  One  has  glimpses,  reminders,  even 
here  that  bring  back  Skelwith  Bridge  with  its  quiet 
fields  and  the  cows,  and  even  the  hens.  You  re- 
member the  evening  when  we  stood  on  Little  Lough- 
rigg  and  watched  the  clouds  drift  away  from  Bow 


356  TRUE  LOVE 

Fell.  The  beautiful  lines  and  the  peak  came  out,  and 
you  spoke  of  the  accident  of  beauty,  and  how  rough, 
chance  groupings  of  rock  became  exquisite  form  when 
you  look  at  them  from  far  away.  And  as  to  this 
accident,  this  irrelevance  of  beauty,  I  said  it  was  the 
same  with  a  woman's  face,  and  that  you  really  hadn't 
any  moral  right  to  be  as  beautiful  as  you  are.  (I 
withdraw.  I  never  believed  that.  You  were  lucky 
in  the  original  structure,  I  dare  say,  but  you've  lived 
your  life  into  your  face.  I  see  that  more  and  more.) 
And  you  in  your  modesty  turned  to  the  mountains 
again  and  said  that  there  were  no  ugly  ones,  and 
that  blunt  old  Wetherlam — that  aged  mountain — was 
almost  as  beautiful  as  Bow  Fell.  But  Bow  Fell  be- 
came our  symbol  of  the  eternal,  the  impregnable,  the 
beautiful.  When  the  Romans  were  at  Hard  Knott 
they  watched  the  mists  clear  from  its  top  just  as  we 
did,  and  as  those  who  come  thousands  of  years  after 
us  will.  Permit  me  a  little  of  the  wider  platitude. 
There  are  times  when  one  wants  to  feel  small. 

"  I'm  an  incurable  skeptic,  a  doubter,  and  sometimes 
I  wonder  whether  I'm  missing  the  mark  awfully  with 
you.  When  you  are  there  I  can  see  faintest  indica- 
tions and  we  play  upon  one  another  subtly  (don't 
we?),  but  now  my  thoughts  go  on  unchecked.  Should 
I  have  been  more  reticent?  Do  I  ask  too  much  of 
you?  And  do  I  analyze  and  expose  myself  too  much? 
Is  it  undignified  and  wearisome?  Fancy  an  awful 
refinement  of  The  Egoist  in  which  Sir  Willoughby 
is  a  modest  gentleman  to  the  world  and  concentrates 
on  the  unfortunate  one.  A  refinement !  What  cheek ! 


"  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "          357 

Poor  Clara!  Poor  Sibyl!  Is  it  possible  to  explain 
until  there's  no  mystery  ?  Why !  I  love  you  for  your 
mystery.  You  can  only  love  a  mystery.  You  can't 
love  anything  you  thoroughly  understand. 

"  Could  you  send  me  a  pocket-handkerchief  now  and 
then?  The  wash  is  not  very  regular.  I'm  getting  to 
see  that,  up  to  a  point,  dirt  doesn't  matter.  We've 
been  pedantic  about  dirt  and  permitted  idle  exquisites 
to  set  the  fashion  instead  of  the  men  who  go  to  dark- 
est Africa  and  the  North  Pole.  But  will  this  war 
abolish  the  picnic? 

"  Oh !  And  thank  you  for  sending  me  my  old 
Golden  Treasury.  Yes,  I  find  I  can  read  it  even  here. 
Read  it!  I  cling  to  it.  It's  a  symbol  of  what  I'm 
ready  to  die  for.  I  learn  the  Shakespeare  sonnets  in 
it  by  heart  and  repeat  them  to  myself  in  queer  con- 
ditions. I  feel  sometimes  that  I  can't  do  justice  to 
the  new  poets  now — the  '  Georgians '  and  people. 
I've  got  my  fill  from  the  old  ones.  I'm  struck  by 
something  and  then  I  can't  remember  it,  or  whether 
it's  by  Gordon  Bottomley  or  Wilfred  Wilson  Gibson. 
It's  not  fair.  But  I  read  the  old  familiar  things  again 
and  again.  Do  you  know  Hood's — 

"  *  I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  born '  ? 

I  con  it  over  now  with  deep  emotion.  Such  simple, 
exquisite  old  things  are  more  to  me  than  ever.  And 
I've  been  reading  '  The  Affliction  of  Margaret,'  and  it's 
still  greatly  tragic.  It  isn't  less  tragic  because  mil- 


358  TRUE  LOVE 

lions  are  being  killed,  or  even  because  while  I  read 
I  can  hear  bullets  hitting  the  sandbags.  They  talk 
about  a  new  literature  after  the  war.  It's  nonsense. 
These  things  are  as  steadfast  as  the  stars,  and  they  are 
the  heart  of  the  England  I  am  fighting  for." 

Sibyl  replied  to  him : — 

"  I  can  bear  anything  you  tell  me.  I  read  your  letter 
and  thought  I  couldn't.  I  thought  I  would  write  and 
ask  you  to  stop,  to  deceive  me,  to  pretend  it's  not  so 
bad.  I  say  I  thought  it,  but  I  didn't  exactly  think  it. 
I  must  have  known  all  the  time  that  I  couldn't  write 
that.  And  all  the  time  I  did  feel  that  I  must  know 
everything,  that  if  you  once  began  to  deceive  me  I 
should  know  no  rest.  Yes,  I  know  that  you  may  be 
killed  any  day.  I  think  the  news  would  hardly  startle 
me.  It  would  take  its  place  in  my  thoughts.  I  am 
not  trembling  when  the  postman  comes,  and  looking 
for  telegraph  boys.  I  seem  to  be  listening  for  some- 
thing farther  away  than  that.  I  have  happy  times. 
At  least  they're  very  like  happiness.  I  feel — is  this 
strange  or  affected? — that  you  and  I  have  accom- 
plished something  prodigious.  It's  like  having  won 
something  that  can't  be  taken  away. 

"  I  mustn't  go  on  like  this.  I'm  minded  to  go  to 
the  other  extreme  and  be  an  ordinary,  spiteful  Ger- 
man girl.  (Does  anybody  look  at  your  letters,  and 
will  they  put  me  in  prison?) 

"  Well,  I  get  a  little  tired  of  your  patriot  here.  He 
always  wants  to  go  one  better,  as  the  saying  is.  If 


"  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "          359 

you  would  shoot  a  German,  he  would  hang;  if  you 
would  impeach  Haldane,  he  would  follow  with 
Asquith  and  Grey.  I  think  I  might  manage  to  get 
nicely  bored  by  him;  it's  so  stupid,  if  you  are  at  war 
with  cannibals,  to  be  always  denouncing  cannibalism. 
Ah !  these  Germans !  Geoffrey,  I  think  of  arguments. 
Is  it  against  our  compact?  Is  it  being  false  to  the 
Idea?  Forgive  me.  I  must  be  just  to  my  poor  coun- 
try too.  For  I  feel  all  this  power  that  is  being  brought 
against  it.  I  don't  think  all  the  time  of  you.  Think 
of  the  Germans  with  a  great  army  on  each  side  and 
Great  Britain  on  the  sea!  There  are  some  dreadful 
arguments  about  what  your  side  does,  but  you  can't 
get  at  the  truth  by  arguing ;  you  can  only  settle  your- 
self in  a  position.  The  German  case  is  that  they  must 
win.  Would  you,  at  the  last  resort,  break  the  rules 
rather  than  lose?  Then  why  not  begin  by  breaking 
them?  Am  I  depraved?  I  try  to  think.  Geoffrey, 
we  are  in  desperate  straits.  You  boast  that  you  will 
utterly  destroy  us.  Starve  us.  To  crush  a  great 
country  is  not  right.  And  so  we  take  any  means. 
Do  you  say  it's  all  us?  But  I  can't  feel  that,  and 
millions  and  millions  of  Germans  can't.  I  try  to  think 
beyond  my  feelings.  I  want  peace  and  quietness.  I 
am  not  evil.  I  can  be  gentle  and  loving.  I  wish  this 
hadn't  come.  You  are  nobler  and  clearer  than  I.  Yes, 
I  can  feel  spite  in  me.  Geoffrey,  can  you  keep  back 
millions  of  people  by  writing  something  on  a  scrap 
of  paper?  Oh!  Am  I  depraved?  Isn't  it  a  non- 
sensical distinction  between  high  explosives  and  gas? 
If  the  Hague  Conference  made  it,  wasn't  that  silly? 


360  TRUE  LOVE 

Did  we  agree?  I  suppose  we  are  ruthless.  Do  you 
think  better  of  the  nations  that  are  pitiably  soft? 

"  I'm  letting  you  see  the  worst  of  me.  Am  I  being 
false  to  the  Idea?  That  old  Idea!  And  to  write  to 
you  like  this  when  you 

"  There  are  times  when  I  feel  thoroughly  German 
and  bad — in  your  eyes.  But  I  do  try.  And  if  they 
wouldn't  vex  me  so  I  should  love  and  admire  the  Eng- 
lish. I  do.  So  often  I  feel  that  you  are  not  guided 
by  self-interest.  There!  Is  that  a  nice  concession, 
Geoffrey?  It's  not  all  anger  and  spite  against  us; 
there's  indignation  and  resentment.  There!  I  sup- 
pose if  I  lived  among  the  Germans  I  might  be  hating 
them  as  well  as  loving.  There  is  no  place  for  me. 
And  Germans  here  are  changing  their  names  and  try- 
ing to  range  themselves.  They  denounce  German  mis- 
deeds publicly,  and  they  send  their  sons  to  the  slaugh- 
ter, pathetically  out-Britishing  the  British.  I  will  not 
do  that.  I  should  like  to  return  to  my  old  German 
name,  but  I  am  not  foolish  and  would  not  make  it 
difficult  for  you. 

"  I  see  the  English  boys  go  off  to  fight  and  I  could 
love  them  for  it.  This  readiness  of  sacrifice  because 
it's  right.  Good  form,  says  the  cynic.  Well,  good 
form.  It's  magnificent.  How  great  the  world  is  show- 
ing itself !  There  are  so  many  things  that  we  should 
not  have  known.  In  these  gallant  boys  I  see  some- 
thing of  you.  Their  fearlessness  is  so  splendid,  as 
yours  would  be  seen  from  outside.  I  know  something 
of  the  inside,  and  that  makes  it  beautiful  and  pathetic. 
I  know  you  always  think  of  me,  and  I  do  appreciate 


"  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "          361 

your  trusting  me.  Tell  me  the  best  and  the  worst. 
I  tell  you  the  worst.  I  could  cross  out  some  that  I 
have  written,  but  it's  part  of  my  life,  of  me,  and  I 
mustn't  shirk  it. 

"  I  think  of  you  and  me  as  great  lovers,  like  the 
famous  ones  of  the  world,  like  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or 
Laura  and  Petrarch,  or — what  are  the  others  ?  I  don't 
want  fame — not  publicity — but  isn't  it  all  very  won- 
derful? It  excites  me  to  think  how  nobly  romantic 
we  are.  We  are  showing  what  love  can  do. 

"  I'm  not  being  absurd,  Geoffrey,  I  hope.  We 
mustn't  be  too  noble.  Not  like  chilly  statues.  I  can 
fancy  nobleness  growing  on  you  till  there  was  noth- 
ing warm  or  comfortable  anywhere.  Don't  let's  be 
great  marble  prigs  incapable  of  annoyance.  You  may 
show  a  little  spite,  as  I  do. 

"  Yes,  I  do  not  forget  Bow  Fell.  We'll  see  it  again, 
we'll  climb  it  again.  I  don't  think,  really,  it's  less 
mysterious  to  me  because  I've  seen  it  close.  Don't 
fear  that  I  shall  understand  you  too  much.  Why! 
I  adore  you.  All  the  time  I'm  arguing  I  adore  you. 
My  letters  would  be  just  repetitions  of  that  if  I  let 
them.  I'm  not  so  foolish.  But  I've  got  a  tight  hold 
on  you." 

Geoffrey  wrote  to  Mary.  He  was  moved  to  write 
about  the  bayonet  charge,  to  grasp  his  nettle  effec- 
tually. If  you  cannot  justify  the  hand-to-hand  fight- 
ing, you  cannot  justify  war.  He  tried  to  reason  about 
this  descent  into  hell.  "  It  is  a  hell  in  which  you  can- 
not merely  endure  but  must  work  with  the  instruments 


362  TRUE  LOVE 

of  hell.  These  are  not  the  innocent  iron,  the  chemical 
reactions  that  spread  death  abroad,  but  our  own  pas- 
sions. You  must  kill  passionately  and  brutally,  and 
then  return  to  sanity.  Your  spirit  is  bruised  and 
humbled,  and  you  have  a  black  remembrance.  For 
duty,  for  your  belief  in  an  ultimate  justice,  you  must 
submit  to  that.  You  must  be  ready  not  only  to  die 
but  to  kill.  To  kill  will  degrade  me?  Then  I  must 
be  degraded." 

He  continued :  "  There  is  a  weight  on  my  spirits  all 
the  time.  A  dead  weight.  I  suppose  we  are  all  so. 
I  wake  in  the  morning  to  remember  it.  Sometimes 
there  is  a  kind  of  champagne  gaiety,  a  flare  in  the 
dark,  a  moment  of  exaltation,  but  all  the  time  I  am 
deeply  conscious  of  this  awful  oppression  of  the  spirit. 
I  suppose  it  means  that  I  haven't  conquered  myself, 
that  I  can't.  I  shall  go  on  behaving  all  right,  but  I 
cannot  get  control  as  I  would.  I  am  the  Unhappy 
Warrior. 

"  I  write  this  to  you.  I  must  tell  some  one.  Do 
not  repeat  it  to  Sibyl.  I  am  not  secret  and  disloyal, 
but  with  her  I  must  aspire.  I  can  tell  her  terrible 
things,  but  not  this.  And  you  are  a  part  of  me. 
Perhaps  this  will  pass." 

Sibyl  wrote  to  Geoffrey : — 

"  I  saw  Mary  the  other  day,  and  she  was  very  good 
to  me.  She  let  out  that  she  had  heard  from  you,  but 
she  didn't  show  me  the  letter.  Why  should  she?  I 
don't  show  her  mine.  And  yet  I  wanted  to  see  that 


«  FROM  THE  TRENCHES  "  363 

letter.  I  couldn't  quite  understancLJier.  Was  she 
exalted?  Was  she  depressed?  What  did  you  say 
to  her?  It  had  to  do  with  you.  Geoffrey,  there  is  a 
sort  of  jealousy  between  us  yet.  She  was  kind  enough. 
You  didn't  write  anything  to  her  that  I  was  not  to 
know?  Would  that  be  fair?  But,  oh!  do  give  her 
anything  that  would  make  her  happy.  I  tell  you 
everything." 

Geoffrey  replied  to  this : — 

"  I  did  say  something  to  her — to  her  alone.  It 
seemed  at  the  time  to  be  something  between  her  and 
me.  Is  that  wrong?  I  say  a  thousand  things  to  you 
that  are  for  you  alone." 

Sibyl  wrote  in  generous  acquiescence. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

LAST  LETTERS 
IT  was  more  than  a  year  later  that  Geoffrey  wrote : — 

"  I'm  yet  in  hopes  that  I  may  get  another  leave  be- 
fore our  child  is  born.  Or  soon  after  ?  Would  that  be 
better?  I  shouldn't  like  leaving  you  just  before  the 
event.  The  awful  thing  about  leave  is  its  definiteness ; 
you  are  always  conscious  that  the  sands  are  running 
out.  I've  specialized  in  that  sort  of  consciousness.  It 
used  to  spoil  my  holidays. 

"What  you  say  about  the  persecutions  (I'll  call 
them  that)  to  which  you  are  subjected  is  immensely 
disturbing  to  me.  Of  course  they  must  intern  dan- 
gerous Germans,  or  those  who  might  be  dangerous. 
I  can  conceive  circumstances  in  which  you  and  I  might 
acquiesce  in  your  internment.  It  would  be  ridiculous, 
certainly,  but,  after  all,  you  are  a  German,  aren't  you, 
and  you  have  sympathies  which  they  might  fear  could 
be  translated  into  action.  (By  the  bye,  I  can  write 
freely  as  I'm  censoring  my  own  letters.)  But  this 
mean  spite,  this  pseudo-indignation  with  innocent  peo- 
ple is  maddening.  What  horrifies  me  is  this  break- 
down of  Christianity  (I  find  myself  becoming  a  sort 
of  Christian,)  this  revelation  of  ungenerousness.  It 
has  nothing  to  do  with  efficiency  in  the  war,  and  the 
proportion  of  moral  indignation  is  a  grain  to  the  ton. 

364 


LAST  LETTERS  365 

"  I've  some  leisure  now  and  then,  and  I've  been 
reading  a  book  by  a  Frenchman  named  Gaston  Riou. 
He  was  a  Red  Cross  orderly,  good  enough  to  be  men- 
tioned in  despatches,  and  he  was  wounded  and  taken 
as  a  prisoner  to  Germany.  There  is  some  magnani- 
mity left  in  the  world.  Riou  was  badly  treated — not, 
perhaps,  with  positive  malignity,  but  with  the  stupid 
severity  that  is  almost  as  bad — and  he  maintains  a 
philosophic  detachment.  He  can  appreciate  German 
ideals  and  see  the  good  in  individual  Germans.  He 
is  not  sentimental  at  all,  he  never  acquiesces  in  in- 
justice, he  remains  alert,  even  gay,  helpful  to  his  com- 
rades. Ah,  these  gallant  French !  It's  a  pride  to  be 
with  them.  I  think  you  are  half  French. 

"  Gaston  Riou  is  alive  still,  I  hope,  but  there's  an 
awful  spiritual  waste  going  on.  In  Germany,  too, 
I'm  sure.  I  remember,  in  the  old  days,  at  that  little 
cellar  of  a  tea-shop,  how  we  used  to  talk  about  the 
artist  and  whether  he  was  to  be  kept  out  of  danger. 
Would  you  let  a  young  Shakespeare  go  to  the  war  if 
you  knew  it?  So  much  the  less  Shakespeare  he  if  he 
claimed  privilege.  Fancy  a  tribunal  deciding  which 
of  the  poets  were  good  enough  for  exemption!  The 
artist  is  a  man  among  men  and  he  has  shown  him- 
self so.  If  my  poor  little  plays  and  novels  were  a 
thousand  times  better  than  they  are,  I  couldn't  shelter 
behind  them. 

"  There's  a  spiritual  waste,  but  there's  rebirth  too. 
Men  like  Rupert  Brooke  and  Julian  Grenfell  and 
Dixon  Scott,  lost  in  the  war,  are  shining  lights  to  us. 
I've  not  won  the  V.C.  or  even  the  D.S.O.,  but  I've 


366  TRUE  LOVE 

always  got  it  in  my  mind  that  I  must  *  draw  the  breath 
of  finer  air,'  as  Meredith  says.  I  suppose  I'm  not  the 
kind  for  rash  heroics,  but  I  must  take  a  reasonable 
turn  and  hold  up  my  head  with  the  rest.  Ah!  but  I 
wish  I  could  be  rid  of  this  soldiering.  It's  not  a  natu- 
ral life.  I  look  back  on  the  old  days  of  the  Herald 
as  happiness — yes,  and  usefulness.  More  and  more 
I  believe  in  the  reason  and  generosity  it  represents. 
I  am  passionately  for  it  and  for  my  comrades  there. 
I  want  peace — peace  in  my  heart,  peace  with  our  foes, 
but  I  want  a  passionate  life,  too.  I'm  prone  to  sink 
back  in  mental  and  bodily  indolence  and  you'll  have 
to  prod  me  on.  The  subtleties  of  indolence  are  in- 
calculable. I  think  some  of  the  conscientious  objectors 
have  drifted  into  their  position  through  a  sort  of  indo- 
lence, an  initial  timidity.  Others,  of  course,  are  just 
the  most  pugnacious  of  mankind.  I  think  there  are 
some  simple  and  beautiful  sincerities  among  them.  The 
other  day  there  was  a  case  reported  of  a  man  who 
affirmed  that  he  had  put  the  case  before  Christ,  that 
he  had  Christ's  support;  the  people  on  the  tribunal 
thought  him  insane.  And  that  man  Arnold  Grey,  who 
has  become  a  '  case ' — I  knew  him,  I  talked  to  him, 
and  his  punishment  revolts  me.  When  you  don't  agree 
with  a  man  you  think  that  somewhere  far  back  in  his 
consciousness  there  must  be  a  sort  of  moral  kink. 
It  can  never  be  straightened  out,  but  all  manner  of 
sincerities  and  nobilities  may  come  on  top  of  it.  I 
didn't  quite  like  Grey,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  that 
he  has  become  tougher  and  finer;  if  he  became  base 
or  cowardly  we  should  cease  to  punish  him. 


LAST  LETTERS  367 

"  Yes,  this  question  of  Christianity  becomes  an  ob- 
session to  me.  Christianity  is  on  its  trial.  I  shouldn't 
say  that  it  is  failing,  but  the  Christians  are  failing. 
They  are  not  making  a  decent  compromise.  They 
seem  to  think  that  Christ  would  have  made  an  ex- 
ception in  disfavor  of  the  Germans.  A  simple  Chris- 
tian would  see  that  it  is  the  very  case  he  had  in 
mind.  When  he  said,  '  Forgive  your  enemies/  if  he 
didn't  mean  the  Germans  he  meant  nothing.  Christ 
would  not  be  in  favor  of  a  commercial  boycott.  He 
could  not  make  much  of  a  Christian  Church  become  a 
vast  organization,  all  machinery  and  salaries  and  posi- 
tions and  vain  repetitions  with  a  few  fine  people  wan- 
dering in  the  maze. 

"  I  think  it's  common  sense  that  we  cannot  turn  the 
other  cheek  to  Germany.  We  must  be,  in  a  sense, 
ruthless  in  carrying  on  the  war.  But  we  must  carry 
peace  in  our  hearts  and  love  for  all  that's  lovable. 
To  suppose  that  there  is  nothing  fine  and  lovable  in 
Germany  is  f  oolishnes.  We  are  not  to  remember  that 
till  after  the  war  ?  I  believe  in  the  truth.  It  does  not 
need  a  lie  to  make  me  do  my  best  here.  But  the  mil- 
lions on  whom  we  depend  will  only  carry  on  the  war 
if  they  believe  the  lie?  And  so  we  others  must  pre- 
tend to  believe  it  ?  Have  we  come  to  that  ? 

"  I  read  another  book — by  an  American,  I  think, 
who  called  the  German  fighting  machine  the  most  piti- 
ful and  devitalized  thing  that  ever  ran  up  and  down 
the  earth.  You  cannot  be  chivalrous  to  a  crashing 
machine,  but  you  can  be  pitiful  to  a  mad  dog.  It  is 
deeply  pathetic.  When  it  attacks  you,  you  try  to 


368  TRUE  LOVE 

batter  out  its  brains,  but  you  don't  let  it  change  you 
into  a  mad  dog.  There  is  much  at  the  door  of  the 
human  race.  Our  self -righteousness  must  accept  that. 
These  German  excesses  humiliate  us.  They  are  what 
we  are  capable  of ;  what,  at  the  worst,  we  are  guilty 
of.  Forgive  me  if  I  say  that  we  are  better  than  they, 
and  that  the  difference  is  worth  dying  for. 

"  But  you  shake  me,  you  terrify  me,  when  you  tell 
me  of  cruelty  to  yourself.  You  are  right  to  tell  me 
for  it  is  part  of  our  compact.  I  broke  that  once  when 
I  wrote  to  Mary  in  bitterness  and  dejection,  wishing 
to  spare  you.  The  mood  is  outlived,  outworn.  You'll 
forgive  that.  I  tell  you  the  truth  now  as  I  would 
have  my  eyes  and  ears  tell  the  truth  to  my  own 
soul. 

"  Now  that  I'm  a  captain  you'll  think  I  ought  to 
be  able  to  tell  you  how  the  war  goes  on  and  when  it 
will  end  ?  Who  knows  ?  I  know  nothing.  There  are 
famous  generals  here,  and  I  don't  know  whether  they 
are  Napoleons  or  duffers.  I  have  no  means  of  know- 
ing, and  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  those  above  me 
(and  them!)  have.  I  am  skeptical  and  mistrust  my- 
self. I'm  not  born  to  lead.  In  despatches  about  this 
war  I  can  find  nothing  better  than  what  Ian  Hamilton 
wrote  about  Gallipoli.  I  can  see  that  he  is  an  intelli- 
gent man.  And  yet  I  wonder  sometimes  whether  his 
opposite  might  not  have  done  the  work  better.  His 
opposite,  as  I  conceive  it,  is  General  Montero  in  Nos- 
tromo.  Do  you  remember  that  egregious  soldier — 
'  imbecile  and  domineering '  ?  What  a  world  in  which 
such  a  creature  could  prevail!  No.  I'll  not  believe 


LAST  LETTERS  369 

that  even  war  is  as  bad  as  that.  Ill  believe  in  Ian 
Hamilton — in  brains  and  character. 

"  The  psychology  of  the  trenches  is  a  queer  thing. 
We  are  up  one  day  and  down  the  next.  It's  a  point 
of  honor  not  to  write  home  dolefully,  and  I'm  afraid 
my  letters  to  you  would  be  considered  quite  wrong. 
I'm  not  doleful,  I  hope,  but  I  hate  deceiving  myself, 
and  you've  taught  me,  bravely,  not  to  deceive  you. 

"  Sibyl,  if  they  persecute  you  in  England,  if  they 
are  cruel  to  you,  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  will  not  bear  it. 
I  will  refuse  my  duty.  I  have  not  a  sword  or  I  would 
break  it.  You  are  more  to  me  than  England,  more 
than  honor.  You  rank  yourself  with  the  enemies  of 
England,  but  all  the  best  that  I  can  conceive  of  loyalty 
and  service  and  love  comes  through  you.  I  haven't 
lived  in  vain.  And  the  child  is  coming.  A  little  Ger- 
man? Englishman?  (or  woman — which  you  will). 
The  child  will  not  know  how  to  hate." 

Sibyl  replied: — 

"  No,  Geoffrey,  you  will  not  break  your  sword,  you 
will  not  refuse  your  duty.  I  will  not  accept  from 
you  anything  less  than  the  best.  If  you  failed  in 
your  duty  through  me  it  would  make  me  miserable 
always.  Think!  You  have  only  to  think.  Remem- 
ber our  old  Idea.  It  has  not  failed,  has  it?  We  did 
'  bring  it  off '  ?  I  want  you  to  tell  our  child  about  it 
some  day. 

"  Geoffrey,  it  is  not  an  important  matter  that  a  few 
Germans  should  not  be  treated  politely.  No,  I  will 


370  TRUE  LOVE 

not  write  like  that;  it's  insincere.  I  do  feel  that  I 
am  wronged.  I  am  deeply  wronged.  I  am  not  bad. 
I  have  done  no  harm.  It  may  be  right  to  imprison 
me  or  to  kill  me,  but  it  cannot  be  right  to  look  at  me 
or  think  of  me  unkindly.  What  are  we  to  do?  And 
what  are  nobly-minded  men  and  women  in  Germany 
to  do?  Perhaps  you  are  all  right  and  we  are  all 
wrong.  I  rebel  against  what  I  hear  and  read  among 
you,  and  yet  all  that  great  sum  of  conviction  and  in- 
dignation dinning  in  my  ears  affects  me;  there  are 
times  when  I  am  confused  and  abased.  This  talk 
of  Germans  being  fiends  is  nonsense.  I  am  superior 
to  that. 

"  Geoffrey,  we  all  think  too  much  of  the  mere  win- 
ning. Partly  I  stand  aside  and  can  see.  You  may 
be  beaten  and  yet  be  greater  than  you  were ;  you  may 
be  second  and  yet  greater  than  when  you  were  first. 
You  may  lose  the  war  to  your  infinite  gain.  Yet  it 
seems  that  mercy  comes  neither  with  victory  nor  de- 
feat. 

"  I  would  not  ask  English  people  for  mercy,  but  I 
would  wish  them  to  be  merciful,  for  they  are  your 
people  and  even  mine.  Everywhere  I  hear  them  cry- 
ing :  '  We  must  not  have  mercy.'  It  is  possible  to 
be  ruthless  nobly  and  not  spitefully.  Geoffrey,  I  have 
known  what  it  is  to  be  hissed  on  the  stage.  It  is 
unkind  to  poor  actors  who  are  doing  their  best.  It 
is  wicked  to  hiss  me  because  I  am  a  German.  I  felt 
it  very  bitterly. 

"  I  do  not  keep  back  anything.  I  often  thought 
about  your  having  written  to  Mary  what  I  must  not 


LAST  LETTERS  371 

see,  but  that's  nothing  now.  There^was  a  time  when 
I  said  to  Mary :  '  You  that  should  love  me ! '  And 
she  replied :  '  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you.' 
Do !  I've  never  conquered  quite  the  last  bit  of  Mary, 
but  we're  friends  now.  I  trust  her  and  love  her. 

"  Yes,  Geoffrey,  I  do  understand  what  you  say 
about  being  a  Christian.  More  and  more  I  turn  to 
Christ.  The  legend  is  like  any  other.  I  am  not  be- 
coming superstitious.  I  know  you  can't  always  be 
meek,  I  know  it  was  right  of  you  to  go  and  fight,  but 
Christ's  meekness  must  save  the  world.  You  English 
may  be  in  the  right — I  do  not  know — perhaps  the  Jews 
and  Pontius  Pilate  were  in  the  right.  If  I  am  buffeted 
and  spat  upon — I  dare  to  use  such  words — I  feel  my 
fellowship  with  Him.  I  could  turn  to  Mary,  the 
mother  of  Christ,  now  that  my  child  is  coming.  I 
am  just  like  the  other  mothers.  Sometimes  I  think 
of  it  as  a  pleasant  English  boy,  but  I  am  not  super- 
stitious; I  don't  know  whether  it's  a  boy  or  a  girl. 
But — not  peace  but  a  sword !  My  child  is  born  into  a 
world  of  strife.  I  shall  lose  it.  All  mothers  lose 
their  children.  The  sharp  pain  of  loss  may  not  be 
worse  than  to  see  them  drifting  away  from  you.  Will 
it  be  a  perpetual  reproach  to  have  had  a  German 
mother?  Ah!  You  implacable  English.  No,  Geof- 
frey. Noble  English,  noble  England." 

He  never  replied.  The  letter  came  to  him  on  an 
evening  of  anxious  preparation.  He  re-read  it  in  the 
gray  of  the  dawn  of  his  last  evening,  while  he  waited 
for  the  signal  to  advance. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
SPECTATORS 

FRESH  from  the  East,  with  the  bronze  of  the  sun  and 
the  pallor  of  sickness  contending  on  his  face,  Burke 
turned  into  the  old  tea-shop,  wondering  whether  that 
former  repository  for  gossip  would  be  good  for  news. 
The  light  was  dim  in  the  lower  room  which  was  nearly 
empty.  But  Imalian  sat  there,  turning  the  pages  of  a 
book  which  rested  on  the  table.  He  turned  listless 
eyes  on  Burke,  and  then  rose  hesitatingly  and  they 
shook  hands.  "  You  back  ?  "  said  Imalian  politely, 
and  then  he  added  with  commiseration :  "  You  look 
bad." 

"  That's  nothing,"  said  Burke.  "  Touches  of  fever." 
After  a  remark  or  two,  Burke  said  "What's  the 
news  ?  " 

"  Attar  is  wounded.  Severe.  Not  dangerous,  I 
hope." 

"  I  didn't  know  he  was  out." 

"  You've  heard  about  Arden  ?  " 

"  I  saw  his  name  among  the  killed.  Where  was  it 
and  how  ?  " 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  Imalian. 

"Oh!    Come!" 

"  I  beg  pardon.  I'm  exasperated.  I  seem  to  be 
always  exasperated  now." 

372 


SPECTATORS  373 

Burke  said :  "  I  find  it  hard  to  see  you  so." 

"  Yes,"  said  Imalian.  "  Do  you  remember  Arden 
chaffing  me  about  my  Eastern  calm?  He  used  to 
throw  about  such  words  as  mystical  and  philosophic. 
And  there  was  that  line  of  Rossetti's :  '  The  years 
recede,  the  years  advance.'  I  was  the  sphinx-like  one 
that  saw  it  all  without  blinking.  And  I  dare  say  there 
was  something  in  it.  I  seem  to  have  lost  all 
that." 

"  You'll  get  it  back,"  said  Burke.  "  But  why  are 
you  exasperated  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  suppose  the  world's  folly,  my  powerless- 
ness." 

Weakly,  Burke  said :  "  You  have  your  books." 

Imalian  glared  at  him.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  my 
books." 

They  were  silent  awhile,  and  then  Burke  said : 
"Does  Mrs.  Arden — how  does  she ?" 

Imalian  looked  at  him  quickly  and  turned  away. 
He  said  gently :  "  She  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  said  Burke.  "  The  pretty,  charming 
creature.  How  was  it — what ?" 

"  You  are  a  great  nation,"  said  Imalian. 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  What  is  one  German  girl  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Burke,  "  that  she  was 
used  badly?" 

"  She  was  very  sensitive." 

"Persecution!    And  Arden  fighting?" 

"  She  died  after  their  child  was  born,"  said  Imalian. 
"  She  had  no  strength  left." 


374.  TRUE  LOVE 

"  Do  you  mean  that  the  brutes  harried  her  to 
death?" 

"  Oh !    You're  a  great  nation." 

"  I'm  an  Irishman." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'd  lost  sight  of  that.  Yes ; 
perhaps  you're  one  of  us." 

"One  of  what?" 

"  The  beaten.  The  forlorn.  And  we  Armenians 
should  be  grateful  to  the  English.  They  have  often 
been  indignant  about  us." 

"  What  happened  to  her?  " 

"  She  died  after  childbirth.  I  don't  say  it  wasn't  a 
natural  death.  I  don't  know.  I  had  been  seeing  her 
sometimes.  I  had  come  to  regard  her  as  the  finest 
person  in  the  world.  In  my  world.  I  tried  to  make 
her  amused  with  things.  She  was  too  sensitive.  And 
then  there  was  Arden's  death." 

"She  knew  of  that?" 

"  They  were  keeping  it  from  her.  She  learnt  it  by 
some  inference.  She  was  very  sharp.  Sharp !  What 
a  word  to  use  of  her!  Her  beautiful  intuitions." 

"That  killed  her?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  If  you  like.  I'm  not  quite 
sane  about  it." 

"  The  child  lives." 

"  Yes.  It's  a  boy.  In  the  care  of  Miss  Arden — 
Mary  Arden.  All  right,  I  believe." 

"  What  will  she  do  with  the  poor  boy  ?  " 

"Do  with  him?" 

"  She's  a  fanatic.  She'll  make  him  something  that 
there's  no  place  for  in  this  world." 


SPECTATORS  375 

"  No.  I  think  not.  She  wants  £b  efface  herself. 
She'll  try  to  do  what  her  brother  would  have  done. 
And  then  her  conscience  will  bring  the  mother  in. 
The  child's  bent,  too.  You  needn't  fear  that  he'll  be 
dragooned  into  her  sort  of  pacifism.  She'll  worry 
herself  over  it,  of  course." 

"  Imalian,  were  those  two  women  friends?  " 

Imalian  pondered  it.  "  Not  exactly.  And  yet  they 
were  devoted  to  one  another,  too.  I  think  Mary 
Arden  reproaches  herself.  Needlessly?  I  can't  say 
what  are  the  needs  of  such  a  nature.  Yes,  she  was 
devoted  to  her.  She  speaks  of  her  as  of  a  saint." 

"  It's  a  stupid  question,  but  did  she — Mrs.  Arden 
— die — peacefully  ?  " 

"  Quietly  at  the  last,  I  think.  But  there  was  a  time 
before  the  end  when  she  couldn't  be  controlled.  She 
shouted  that  she  was  German,  that  she  was  English, 
I  don't  know  what.  And  constantly  it  was  '  The  noble 
English— the  noble  English.'  " 

"What!    Ironical?" 

"  No,  no.  She  was  thinking  of  him.  She  was  call- 
ing to  him." 

They  were  silent  again.  Imalian  got  up  and,  look- 
ing at  Burke,  said  kindly :  "  I  hope  you're  getting  on 
all  right." 

Burke  assented  listlessly. 

Imalian  tucked  his  book  under  his  arm  and  stood 
there  staring  into  vacancy.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  a  very 
great  nation.  And  you're  in  the  right.  I  mean  those 
damned  British.  I'm  glad  you're  an  Irishman." 

And  he  shook  hands  with  him. 


COLAS  BREUGNON    Burgundian 

BY  ROMAIN  HOLLAND 

Author  of  "  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE."    $1.75. 

The  phrase,  "  there  is  life  in  the  old  dog  yet,"  is  the  keynote  of  this 
romance  of  a  buoyant,  plainspoken  Burgur.dian  in  the  little  town  of 
Clamecy  and  the  days  of  Marie  de  Medici.  Colas  is  the  embodied 
artistry,  humor  and  courage  of  France. 

Bookman:  "To  live  in  the  company  of  Breugnon  is  a  tomic." 

Review:  "  Seven  or  eight  hours  of  delight.  .  .  .  Life  in  its  totality, 
teeming  and  varied,  justified  and  glorious." 

Nation:   It   "flows  with   sparkling   Burgundy." 

Neva  York  Sun:  It  is  "  so  good  that  we  do  not  pretend  to  be  able  to 
do  it  justice  .  .  .  the  very  tonic  the  world  now  needs." 

New  York  Evening  Post:  "  Playful,  tender,  light-spirited  and  yet 
penetrating." 

Boston  Transcript:  "  A  character  worth  remembering." 

Chicago   Tribune:  "  Superior  to  anything   Holland  has  done." 

Philadelphia  Evening  Ledger:  "  Intensely  human." 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

BY  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

Author  of "  JOSEPH  VANCE."  "  SOMEHOW  GOOD."  etc.    $1.90 

The  mystery  of  Dr.  Cartaret's  complete  disappearance,  told  with 
De  Morgan's  delightful  characters,  constant  quiet  humor  and  brave, 
clean  view  of  life. 

New  York  Times'  Review:  "  A  peculiar  homage  .  .  .  perhaps  no 
English-writing  novelist  since  the  days  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray  has 
won  it  as  he  has  .  .  .  full  of  all  the  things  his  admirers  love  a 
De  Morgan  novel  for  .  .  .  the  mystery  of  Dr.  Cartaret's  disappearance 
enthralls  the  reader." 

New  York  Evening  Post :  "  The  absorbing  progress  of  the  story  .  .  . 
all  these  people  really  live  .  .  .  what  may  be  called  the  moral  force  of 
the  novel  is  great." 

Atlantic  Monthly:  "  No  English  writer  in  this  century  has  done  so 
much  to  take  the  novel  away  from  the  dilettanti  and  give  it  back  to  the 
public." 

New  York  Evening  Sun :  "  He  possesses  the  true  magic  of  '  the  spell 
of  the  teller  of  tales.'  " 


HENRY       HOLT      AND       COMPANY 

19  W.  44  ST.  (II '*o)  NEW   YORK 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL 


A     000  046  289     5 


